


Pariah

by provocation



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: In the middle of the war between Múspell and Nifl, Fjorm escapes as a stowaway on Pirate Captain Laegjarn's ship. Together, they figure things out.
Relationships: Fjorm/Laegjarn (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> *writes fanfiction about a phone game* new year, same me
> 
> This is largely inspired by a fic that is not currently published, so apologies if the characterization is a little off. For the most part this is set in canon, with the major exception that Gunnthrá is evil. Here's where I'd link to the fic that convinced me of the merits of evil!Gunnthrá, but [Chris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/works?fandom_id=235690) has yet to finish and post it. The other changes from canon will hopefully become evident as you read, as will the depths of Gunnthrá's powers and backstory. 
> 
> This story has been edited by my betas [Chris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/works?fandom_id=235690) and [Jude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juwude), who are godsends for listening to me talk about Laegjarn this much. Thank you for getting me into these games, and for putting up with my fixation on certain cavaliers (and now Fjorm)! Thanks are also due to Cocoa and the rest of our Discord server for helping me develop ideas and think about pirates.
> 
> I've chosen to include Heroes from a couple other games as pirates but I won't tag them as they're all minor characters. Most of the names for ships, places, and extraneous Múspellian and Niflese characters are either taken straight from Old Norse or from Norse mythology. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it!

Fjorm hides without being found for a week.

How, exactly, she worked her way onto the ship is still a blur. In all the commotion of the firefight, she had hardly taken a look at the vessel’s name, allegiance, or flag. She knew one thing about the ship and its crew, and she only knew that because of how the Niflese army had been shouting and firing at it. It wasn’t a boat from Nifl at all.

Somehow she’d managed her escape, sneaking down into the bowels of the ship while everyone else was distracted. The sleeping quarters were empty, and just past them was a hidden place that Fjorm guesses might have once been used to store prisoners. It’s less than spacious, with no furniture at all and an ugly hole in the corner that might function as a drain. The mildewed wood is somehow hard enough to be uncomfortable and weak enough that Fjorm spends hours worrying that it might give, and toss her out into the ocean.

She’d crouched down here, with a hand over her mouth and all her worldly possessions in the pockets of the ragged clothes on her body. Not trusting herself to breathe, Fjorm had stayed like that until her whole frame was shaking; then she had moved only her legs. There was no creak; there was no alarm. Nobody came to find her. A horn had sounded, signifying the departure of her mystery saviours. Fjorm closed her eyes and silently wept.

That first night, curled up on the floor of the crawlspace with her robe over her like the world’s worst blanket, Gunnthrá came to her. Not literally, of course— but the moment Fjorm closed her eyes and stopped looking up at the light shining through the trapdoor above her, sleep overtook her. 

It was then that her sister came, proper and perfect as always. She looked relieved to see Fjorm, speaking softly and with a delicateness that Fjorm missed. “Oh, dear little sister,” Gunnthrá cooed. “I was so worried about you. Are you alright? … Did you make it out alive? … I hope no harm has befallen you…?”

Even in her dream, Fjorm knew it would mean death to answer. She just stared at the image before her, of a kind and tender Gunnthrá. Each question was more insistent than the last, and Fjorm bit her lip to keep from speaking. Finally, Gunnthrá had demanded, tone now cloying, “Where _are_ you, little sister?”

Fjorm awoke to the taste of blood. Her limbs were wound up so tightly that her rest felt wasted, and she had bitten through her lower lip. She lay there, terrified of the dreams that awaited her in her mind and of the strangers that awaited her outside this room.

So for days, she has not left her hiding place. After voices and figures began to pass by with no sign of suspicion, Fjorm reasons with herself that she’s safe— for now, at least. It’s more than she thought she’d have; at least she’s alive, and at least she’s not in Nifl.

The urgency of her departure gave her little time to pack food or water, so Fjorm rations for herself from what she has, and sticks to it as strictly as she can manage. She goes hungry every second day, reasoning that she could be in here for months depending on the voyage that these people intend to take. 

In hope of divining some information about said people, Fjorm takes to listening to the crew as they pass by her room. She’s both careful and lucky; the light from the lantern in the hall above her never seems to shine directly onto the floor of her room, so she stays safe as she catches more than her fair share of conversations. The occasional name is mentioned, but none that she recognizes— in fact, _most_ of the things she catches in conversation are unrecognizable. 

Fjorm begins to wonder if she’s on an Askran or Emblan warship for hire, because of the number of Heroes from other worlds. She hears them talking about places that don’t exist and brandishing weapons she’s never seen before. The brig she’s in must be on the way to a popular place because people walk by fairly often. In a moment that stops Fjorm’s heart, one of them even steps on the trapdoor. He doesn’t fall through; he just continues telling his story to his mystery audience. “... And _that’s_ when the priest walked in, and I figured out why she kept calling him Dad instead of Father.”

“Stop,” another voice says, sounding strangled and long-suffering. “Just. Stop talking.”

“No, I wanna hear,” someone else interrupts. “Was he mad?”

The man still standing on the trapdoor replies, “Oh, he was furious! You should’ve seen the look on his face! But it was okay because I’m good at thinking on the spot, and I came up with the perfect explanation. Actually, Brady, you would’ve loved it—”

“ _Stop_ ,” the second voice repeats, pleading. They continue down the hallway, and Fjorm doesn’t get to hear what the explanation was. She doesn’t care, busy keeping a hand over her mouth until she’s sure they aren’t walking back her way. When she finally lets go, her body is immediately wracked with a cough. Her hand flies back into place a second too late.

Two, then ten, then thirty minutes pass. Fjorm relaxes, and when her heart calms back down to its normal pace, she treats herself to a meal even though it’s an odd day. She figures she’s earned it.

For the most part, the strange crew seems friendly; they laugh together and talk about happy trivialities, not the reality of war. Fjorm wonders what would happen if she were to meet them and if they’d truly be so mad at her for hiding on their boat. Some nights she even smells food coming from some nearby kitchen, and she pummels her fists hard against her stomach to try to stop the noises of hunger. The idea of taking dinner with them is comforting enough that she falls asleep, and sometimes that comfort follows her into her inevitable dream meetings with Gunnthrá. The fantasy is never enough to protect her or keep her from starving, but it is a nice thought.

All that wondering and fantasizing ends when she catches a name she _does_ recognize. It’s a quiet conversation between two crew members; Fjorm remembers one of them from the conversation about the priest. That voice belongs to a woman with long brown hair pinned up to show off her light armour. She could be a flier of some sort, maybe; it begs the question of why she’s working on a ship. Her conversational partner is a man with short green hair and light clothes, in a low voice. She mentions his name— Sothe— but he doesn’t return the favour, leaving Fjorm in the dark. 

The woman seems as concerned as Sothe is unbothered, and his tone is equally reassuring and chiding. “Don’t you trust her? She’s our captain.”

“Of course I trust her, it’s not that,” the woman bristles, crossing her arms. “I just don’t know what’ll happen when S… when _he_ finds out that she’s been. Well. Ignoring her orders! Aren’t you scared for her? For… all of us?”

“No,” Sothe answers obliquely. From here, Fjorm can’t guess if he’s lying or not. “She hasn’t been ignoring them, not directly. And if I had to pick a side, I know where my loyalty lies.”

Nervously, the woman glances around. She lowers her voice again. “Me too. I mean, there’s no question. But can we really defy—”

“Laegjarn knows what she’s doing.” Sothe walks away and the woman follows, but if anything more is said, Fjorm doesn’t hear it. Her knees are weak, and even though she’s sitting she still feels like she might collapse under her own weight. Laegjarn, the name she does recognize, is the worst possible news she could have heard. If the captain of this vessel is named Laegjarn, then it certainly makes sense why Nifl’s archers would have been firing at her ship; Laegjarn is Surtr’s daughter. The first princess of Múspell, and the most feared general in its army.

And Fjorm, the princess of Nifl, is a stowaway on her ship.

Fjorm doesn’t sleep after that for at least two nights. She doesn’t catch any more interesting conversations, but truth be told, she isn’t really listening. She found a hook on the wall a few days ago, and she spends most of her time hanging onto it to try to ground herself. It never works, of course, because the rusted iron hook is just connected to the wood of the ship, which is at sea. Fjorm knows this because she can hear the water rushing when she puts her ears to the walls. She can smell the salt in the cold air, and feel it in her hair and on her clothes.

Her mind races with a thousand scenarios to try to escape, none of them profitable. Maybe some in the crew might have sympathy for her situation, but helping her would mean mutinying against their captain. Fjorm doesn’t know much about the personal situation of Princess Laegjarn, or why she would be captaining a ship instead of at home fighting her father’s war. But she knows of Laegjarn’s reputation, and she knows Múspellian forces are not merciful. She knows that very well.

Eventually, Fjorm’s body gives in to exhaustion, and she rests hunched in the corner of her tiny room, holding onto the hook on the wall like it might provide protection were anyone to find her. She’s lulled into sleep by the sound of the crew singing down the hall; she doesn’t recognize the song, but it seems to be heavily biased against the Niflese. She minds less than she should; the jovial warmth of the crew’s connection tricks her into a heavier sleep than usual.

Gunnthrá is not there immediately; at first Fjorm dreams of nothing at all. Then her vision starts to fade to white and blue as her sister appears, looking concerned as usual. “You must be so scared,” Gunnthrá starts. It’s a change from the other nights. “I feel it. Your fear. You’re tired, and you’re lost. Isn’t that right? You’re so far from home…”

Fjorm is beyond tired. All her muscles hurt from lack of proper exercise and rest, and she’s starving and dehydrated. She accepts the risk that she might talk in her sleep, and for the first time since she escaped, she replies to her sister, “You don’t know where I am.”

Surprise and delight flash over Gunnthrá’s face, so quickly that Fjorm could have blinked and missed them. “So tell me,” she answers without missing a beat.

Fjorm stays silent, glaring at her sister.

“Tell me,” Gunnthrá repeats. She tilts her head to the side. “I’ll come and find you. It’ll be alright, Fjorm!”

“You’ll never find me,” Fjorm starts to say, but before she can get the second word out, her entire system flares up with pain. It feels like she’s being dipped into molten lava; that’s the only way to describe it. Gunnthrá should not be capable of causing her pain like this but dreams have always been her older sister’s domain, and in her domain, Fjorm is bound to Gunnthrá’s rules.

The burning agony is gone when she wakes up, breath fast and loud. A cold sweat breaks over her forehead and Fjorm hugs herself so tight it nearly hurts. The ship rocks around her, creaking as always. Fjorm is so caught up in the aftermath of her nightmare that she doesn’t notice as soon as she should: the trapdoor above her is open.

Fjorm freezes. She waits for someone to jump in and throttle her, or for someone’s head to pop up in the empty space. Nobody peeks in, and she is left to wait. Finally, chest rising and falling with the shaking boat, Fjorm gets to her feet. She uses the hook on the wall as a step to climb out, and finally, she cautiously leaves her hiding place.

Standing above her in the hallway is a woman in regal, dark armour. She stares down at Fjorm, and without explanation, Fjorm _knows_ that this is Laegjarn. She looks different from what Fjorm had expected, but the sternness on her face makes her status and authority clear. The shock and fear cause Fjorm to lose her grip on the trapdoor above her and for a moment Fjorm nearly falls back down into her hiding place. Laegjarn reaches forward without hesitation and grabs her sleeve, pulling her up into the light.

The trap-door closes behind her, and Fjorm looks over her shoulder to see a bard dressed in all green. He looks much more baffled than his captain, who releases her grip on Fjorm. Fjorm braces herself for the blow, sure that she’s already dead. But when she turns back to look at the Múspellian princess, Laegjarn is just still staring at her.

Fjorm hasn’t spoken in days— except when she’d talked to Gunnthrá just now. With a pang of despair, she realizes that her fears about talking in her sleep must have been correct; or at least, the scream of pain alerted Laegjarn to her presence. She opens her mouth to say something, though she has no clue what; the only sound that comes out is a feeble cough.

Laegjarn narrows her eyes. “I don’t remember taking anyone from Nifl as our prisoner,” she speaks, and her voice is different from what Fjorm had expected too. “Would you care to explain how exactly you got onto my ship?”

Again Fjorm tries to speak; this time her coughing is wet and doesn’t subside for several minutes. The bard behind her chimes in, “She’s probably sick from hiding down there. I can’t even imagine what she ate.”

“It doesn’t look like she ate anything at all,” another voice says. Fjorm doesn’t even look to see who it is, too busy trying to get her last words out. “She’s tiny.”

“Alright,” Laegjarn warns them, and the others shut up. “All…… fuck. All right. Bring her to my cabin, and then I’ll find out why she’s here.”

Fjorm tenses at this; she’d rather Laegjarn strike her down now instead of torturing her for information on Nifl and Gunnthrá. The bard seems to agree, protesting, “You’re gonna bring her to your cabin? Laegjarn, she’s obviously here as a spy—”

“I’ll find out,” Laegjarn interrupts. When nobody moves or replies, she rolls her eyes. “That’s an order, First Mate.”

“Fine, _Captain_ ,” the bard snarks back at her. The source of the other voice picks Fjorm up with gentler hands than she’d expected. She’s sure Laegjarn didn’t mean ‘tenderly carry the prisoner to my cabin’, but that’s what happens. She’s brought out of the hallway and up a set of stairs that she doesn’t remember until they reach the deck.

The crew all stops their work to gape at Laegjarn’s find. One of them, a dancer with grey hair wearing long blue silks, actually points at her and crows, “I _told_ you, Brady!!” Uncomfortable with all the attention, Fjorm looks up to see the woman carrying her. Her short red hair is cropped close to her skull, and she’s wearing one gold earring. She looks more like a pirate than a Múspellian soldier. When Fjorm catches her staring, she quickly averts her eyes.

Fjorm doesn’t mind; she’s busy soaking in the sight of the sun and sea. It’s a beautiful last look at the world, and she’s grateful for it.

Laegjarn bickers with her first mate all the way to her cabin, right until they reach the door. “She’ll need a bath,” the captain tells the woman holding Fjorm, who nods and puts her down. Laegjarn stares at Fjorm again and adds, “And a meal.”

“Or ten,” the woman mutters. Fjorm turns to look at her, and she winks before heading off to presumably heat water and obtain food. This is the strangest way of treating a prisoner; Fjorm starts to wonder if she’s really dealing with Laegjarn of Múspell, or if it’s just a happy accident and someone else has that name.

Whoever she is, she hasn’t stopped staring. “You can stand,” she observes. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Fjorm answers, voice still hoarse.

“And talk,” the princess says. She opens the door to her cabin, ushering Fjorm in. It could not be more different from the hiding space that Fjorm has been crammed into for the last week. The room is full of books and maps and drawings and battle plans, but it’s spacious enough to still have chairs and a table to sit at. There’s even a fireplace, which seems a stupid thing to have on a ship. Even a ship hailing from the Kingdom of Fire. 

Fjorm follows Laegjarn over to the chairs and sits with her, scared that the princess’ next move will be to get a good fire going and then stick Fjorm into it head-first. But all that Laegjarn does is sit sideways in her chair, so she can continue staring at Fjorm. 

Fjorm, undeterred even after a week in hell, stares right back. Laegjarn is beautiful— the thought astonishes her, but it’s true. Her eyes are fiery red, and her hair is green and pink. One shoulder of her armour has dark feathers bursting out from under the spaulder, making her look like a laguz. The other is bare, as are her arms; they’re as tanned as her face and toned with muscle. Fjorm shifts under Laegjarn’s gaze and that’s enough to snap both of them back to reality.

Fjorm breaks the silence first. “Who are you?”

This clearly takes Laegjarn aback. She looks concerned that Fjorm may have lost her mind. “Who… you don’t know whose ship you’re on?”

“I heard your crew call you Laegjarn,” Fjorm says. The chair beneath her is comfortable enough that she could sleep in it. She pinches her leg to stay awake. “Are you really Princess Laegjarn?”

“Princess, general, captain...” Laegjarn waves her hand. “Sure. One of those.”

“From Múspell?” Fjorm doesn’t bother to hide her loathing.

“You’re not supposed to be the one asking the questions,” Laegjarn chides her, crossing her arms. “Yes, that’s me, Laegjarn of Múspell. Daughter of Surtr. Now, who the fuck are _you_ , and how in the gods’ names did you get on my boat?”

If she’s going to die here, she might as well see if she can make it a couple more days. Surely speaking her own name and rank here would earn her a one-way ticket off the plank. Fjorm casts around for a name that isn’t her own, but that she’ll still remember. “I’m Sylgr, of Nifl.”

Laegjarn hesitates, looking amused for some reason. She doesn’t say why. “Sylgr?”

“Yes. I… I know that our countries are at war, and this might be too much to ask of you, but I came here to— escape my home.” This part, at least, is true. “If I had stayed in Nifl, my life would be over. I would be forced to fight a war I don’t care about, for— for a ruler who doesn’t care about me. I didn’t have a choice, I just saw your boat and I… and I ran.”

The Múspellian princess leans back in her seat. “You… ran.”

“Yes.”

“And then hid in my brig for a _week."_

“Yes.”

“Without eating, or drinking.”

“No! I had a waterskin, and some jerky.” Fjorm reaches into her pocket to show Laegjarn, but the jerky must have fallen out. She holds the nearly empty leather container out to the captain, who makes no move to grab it.

Laegjarn narrows her eyes once more. “My crew has been sharing strange rumours. Ghost stories about a coughing banshee that they seem to hear every time they go below deck at night. Would that ghost be you, Sylgr?”

“Yes.” Fjorm retracts her hand. “I’ve had a sickness since… well, since the war started again, so… nearly two years now. It’s like an infection in my chest but it’s never going to go away. I’ve gotten used to it now, but I suppose some of your crew might have heard it. Sometimes in my sleep, I can’t hide the noise.”

That seems to be the last straw for Laegjarn, who heaves a sigh and looks up at the ceiling of the cabin. No answers are to be found there, or if she’s praying, nobody answers. She finally looks back at Fjorm, shaking her head slightly. “Okay. Alright. I won’t throw you overboard, and I won’t bring you back to Nifl. But if you want to stick around, you’d better make yourself useful.”

Fjorm blinks without understanding for a moment, and then the news washes over her like a wave. “You won’t?”

“Did you hear the last part? About making yourself useful?” Laegjarn mutters to herself as she leaves the room, going into an adjacent room. She brings back a glass of water for Fjorm, who gulps it down in a matter of seconds. “Gods. That’s my room there, alright? There’s a spare bed that— well, nobody’s using it, so you can sleep there.”

“Oh,” Fjorm says, surprised and flummoxed by this kindness and by the implicit trust. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Laegjarn is fine. It’s the only free bed on board; unless you’d like to go back to sleeping in the brig. And this way I can keep an eye on you.” She surveys Fjorm yet again. “Rest. Eat. And _bathe,_ please.” 

And with that the Múspellian princess gets up and walks from the room, probably to go fight with her first mate. Fjorm is left to her own devices, in a room filled with Múspell’s battle plans and its general’s personal effects. If she was here as a Niflese spy, then Laegjarn sure did a terrible job of protecting Múspellian assets. 

However, Fjorm is too tired to even make it to the adjacent bedroom— she ends up passing out right there in the chair, fingers twisting in her sleep as she searches for something to latch onto.

She rests. She eats. She bathes.

Slowly over the course of the next day, Fjorm starts to look more like herself, which is frightening since she’s supposed to look like Sylgr. But when she makes her reappearance from the cabin, well-rested and full and clean, the look on Laegjarn’s face is not one of doubt but of relief.

Fjorm doesn’t hesitate; she puts herself to work immediately, following Laegjarn’s orders. Fortunately, when she wasn’t leading Nifl’s forces into pointless conflicts and unjust assaults, she was good at keeping the castle tidy. Unfortunately, she has little experience on a boat, so she entreats some crew members for help.

Their friendliness is astounding. These might be Heroes employed in a world other than their own, but they’re still employed by the Múspellian empire. Or perhaps by the Emblan empire, given that alliance. But none of them seem to care that she’s from Nifl, or that she hid on their ship for a week. 

Maybe the first point is forgiven because Laegjarn informed her crew about ‘Sylgr’ and her unfortunate situation, but they should still be suspicious of spies. _Hel,_ technically she is a spy for Gunnthrá as long as her sister has access to her subconscious mind. But she has not succumbed to the dream interrogation over the last week, so now Fjorm has made up her mind to withstand it forever.

None of them seem to really care about her being a stowaway either; she expects disgust and to be shunned, and instead, she is received with earnest concern. Even the green bard from before, who is tasked with showing her around the ship, spends a good few minutes looking over her with worry. Fjorm gets the sense he sees right through her story, but when she thanks him for the tour, he doesn’t question Sylgr’s tale. 

“It’s my job,” he says. “Well… no, it’s not. But if you’re going to stay around for a while, you should know where things are. And besides, I trust Laegjarn with my life.”

The bard Lewyn hails from another world, and he doesn’t share much about it with Fjorm— just the name Silesse. He was made Laegjarn’s first mate by virtue of being the first person assigned to her ship, and he’s retained the role through his good nature and skill. Fjorm is desperate to know why the Múspellian princess has taken off with a pirate ship full of heroes instead of staying at home to fight the war. But it might be too soon to pry into that, so she holds her tongue.

Laegjarn’s ship is called _Mímisbrunnr,_ a majestic name for a majestic warship. Fjorm cannot imagine that Surtr would be happy to know how the crew of the Mímisbrunnr spends their time. If the war still rages on elsewhere, you could not possibly divine that from watching Laegjarn’s crew. Fjorm passes _two_ different card games on her tour of the ship. She recognizes the woman who carried her out of the brig earlier, locked in a game with an unfamiliar man. They both pause their game to smile and wave at Fjorm. “Our cooks,” Lewyn says, rolling his eyes.

Down the hall, there are more familiar faces, several rounds into the game Jehannan Ratscrew. Fjorm only learns the name because the dancer who pointed at her earlier gets up when she and Lewyn approach and he invites them to join.

“I don’t know how to play,” Fjorm confesses nervously. She observes the board. “I could learn?”

“Next time,” the dancer assures her, smiling wide as he pats her arm. “Hey, are you the sickly ghost we’ve been hearing around the ship? I’ve been trying to tell these guys, but they don’t believe me.”

“Well, she’s alive,” says one of the other players. Fjorm remembers— Sothe. He had talked to the woman currently sitting next to him about Laegjarn’s mission; when Fjorm looks her way, the woman smiles. “So, you were wrong.”

“Right, but I told you I heard _something!”_

The woman gets to her feet. “Sorry about him,” she says, with the air of a long-suffering friend. “I’m Cynthia, and this is Inigo, Brady, and Sothe.”

“I’m Sylgr,” Fjorm replies, nodding to everyone. Brady looks out of place amongst the others; maybe he’s their chaplain? “It’s nice to meet you all… sorry for any trouble I may have caused?”

“No trouble at all,” Inigo says, hand over his heart. Fjorm raises an eyebrow. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, really. I mean, now I don’t have to be scared of ghosts on board _and_ there’s a beautiful new addition to the crew!”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Fjorm says as everyone else groans at Inigo. He’s only put out for a moment before bouncing back and returning to his game, and Fjorm catches Cynthia smiling at her. She wants to stay and learn to play but Lewyn is moving on already, so she hopes there’ll be time later.

Lewyn doesn’t put Fjorm to work straight away, but he passes her off to two pirates working on the deck, which ends up being the same thing. The younger one, Wil, shows her how to operate (and pronounce) the mainsail and how to tie interesting knots. His friend Dart teaches her two new curse words, which is just as fun. 

The sun eventually dips below the distant horizon, breaking them out of their work. Wil shivers and Dart grumbles under his breath, but the chill of dusk is not daunting to Fjorm. She puts down the rope she’s been idly tying for an hour and crosses to the railing, looking at the ocean moving past them. A spray of saltwater arches up to mist her hand extended over the side, and Fjorm suddenly desperately misses her home. She wonders if this is the same water that flows from the springs of Nifl, winding its way out to come to find her at sea.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Fjorm jolts out of her homesickness and twists to look at the person beside her. Laegjarn is there, her arms also thrown over the railing. The dying orange sunlight is reflected on her skin and in her eyes, and the gold and black armour she’d worn earlier is nowhere to be seen. Now she’s wearing a long white shirt, with billowing sleeves and laces along her chest. It nearly glows in the brilliant sunset.

“Yes,” Fjorm sputters, hoping her delayed reaction isn’t too obvious. She wonders how she looks in her borrowed pirate clothes, too tall and wide for her frame; she probably sticks out like a sore thumb next to Laegjarn. “I’ve never been on a ship like this before.”

Laegjarn drags her gaze away from the sun to look at Fjorm. Nobody looks at her like that— even when she would walk amongst the Niflese commoners who _knew_ she was their princess, nobody has ever looked at her like this. Fjorm is only human; she flushes, then coughs.

“Hope you’re not about to get seasick,” the captain teases. “There’s more work for you to do tonight.”

The work ends up being with the odd pair of cooks from earlier, who thank Laegjarn and then send her on her way. “Thanks for coming down here to help,” the man says. “I know this heat must not be what you’re used to.”

“It’s alright,” Fjorm says, watching Laegjarn leave. She turns back to the excited cooks. “I mean, we have kitchens in Nifl.”

His enthusiasm persists. “Is that where you worked before the war? I’d love to try out some new recipes… I’ve never eaten anything from Nifl!”

The other cook slaps him on the arm with a spatula— too gentle to hurt but loud enough to make her point. “Leave her alone, Stahl. Now, I’m sure you must be hungry for… sorry, what was your name?”

Fjorm coughs, again. “Sylgr! But, ah, I don’t mind waiting to eat with everyone else—”

“Bullshit! You’ve barely eaten in a week, and you’re sick to boot.” The woman offers her a hand, and when Fjorm reaches out to shake it she sees a slice of orange. Fjorm takes it with little hesitation, obliged and entertained. Besides, she _is_ hungry. “I’m Sully. Stahl and I’ll fix you up!”

“Here,” Stahl says, and beckons her over towards the stew. It is hotter than she’d like, but it smells amazing and stirring is easy. Fjorm begins to suspect that Stahl and Sully have no need of a third cook at all, since they spend an hour sneaking her snacks under the guise of ‘taste-testing’. By the end, Fjorm is too full to even properly enjoy dinner, but she doesn’t regret the time spent with them since they were so kind.

That night Gunnthrá comes to her again. Fjorm realizes, thoughts muggy and half-formed but still within reach, that she had not missed her sister’s absence last night. She takes the time to observe her older sister properly. Gunnthrá’s hair is frayed at the ends now, and parts of it are fading from its bright pink into white. The sight sets off an alarming thought, terrifying Fjorm so much that she hardly hears her sister’s first question.

“Fjorm, are you feeling well?” Gunnthrá looks frightened for her, but Fjorm is too consumed by her own fear to reply. She checks Gunnthrá for the telltale signs, but aside from the hair, her sister looks as healthy as ever. Fjorm breathes, reassuring herself— of course her sister would never take the Rite of Frost. That would mean death, and Gunnthrá doesn’t intend to die until Surtr and all of Múspell have been conquered. Or… conquest used to be her goal, anyway. Now she just seems set on a path leading to destruction.

“You look so tired,” her sister coos. Fjorm frowns; she isn’t. She’s resting in a bed of her own, and for the first time in a week, she’s been fed and shown kindness. “You don’t need to work so hard, dear little sister. I can take care of you. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you.”

“I thought we already had this discussion,” Fjorm says, and braces herself for the pain. It doesn’t come this time; Gunnthrá just rolls her eyes before disappearing. 

Fjorm wakes up in a soft bed to the sound of a creaking ship, and distant voices. She blinks a few times, considering the dream. She’s at a disadvantage since she doesn’t know the limits of Gunnthrá’s powers. It seems that her sister can see and hear her, but that for now, Fjorm’s surroundings are a mystery. That might be enough to keep her safe, as long as she doesn’t let any details about the Mímisbrunnr or Laegjarn slip loose.

Startled, Fjorm remembers that this isn’t her room. She sits up in bed, clutching the blankets; fortunately, Laegjarn has already left. It might be well into the morning already. Fjorm yawns and climbs out of bed, resolving not to talk to Gunnthrá anymore. Every night of silence is another day safe.

For a week Fjorm puts all thoughts of Nifl far from her mind. She fits in with the crew and distracts herself with work and somehow it all goes smoothly, until one day they see that familiar blue flag on the horizon. Fjorm is so used to it that she doesn’t even register the warship as a threat until Dart yells out from halfway up the mainmast, and then the ship breaks into a panic.

Lewyn starts bellowing orders, and Dart climbs down from the crow’s nest faster than Fjorm has ever seen him move. Laegjarn exits her cabin holding a longsword engraved with red and black writing and dressed once more in her armour. Their eyes meet for long enough for Fjorm to catch Laegjarn muttering to herself. She stares at Fjorm and Fjorm takes the hint and dashes away. She doesn’t even have to be told once.

Fjorm ends up hiding next to one of the cannons, which is a fine tactic until Sothe rushes to her side. There’s a box of cannonballs next to him. All of a sudden the weight of everything sets in. They’re going to battle a Niflese ship. A ship from her homeland. And here’s Fjorm, hiding on the Múspellian warship captained by Laegjarn. Just by being here, she’s already committed treason. In her panic she blurts out, “Are you going to fire on them?”

Sothe tilts his head to the side. “Well, are they going to fire on _us?”_

Fjorm grimaces. Before she can tell him that the answer is probably yes, half a dozen ropes slice through the air. She watches with wonder as the Mímisbrunnr’s crew jumps from the astern side of the ship, vaulting onto the Niflese boat. Laegjarn takes off first, followed by Dart, Inigo, and Wil. Their ropes are thick and tied around long hooks, which hit their marks.

Sothe and Fjorm wait with bated breath for the sound of cannon fire or even swords clashing, but there’s nothing. Just— the steady rush of the surrounding ocean. Compared to the commotion of a moment ago this peace is disquieting, and before she can think better of it Fjorm peeks through a gap in the ship to watch.

Laegjarn’s sword is still in her scabbard, although she seems ready to whip it out at any moment. Wil’s bow is taut too but as far as Fjorm can tell, the fight hasn’t started yet. The captain of the other ship doesn’t seem happy to have been boarded, and he and Laegjarn get into a screaming match.

Then the Niflese captain turns, and Fjorm’s pulse doubles. “Oh,” she gasps, and ducks her head back down very quickly.

“What?” Sothe narrows his eyes. “Do you recognize them?”

That’s an understatement. She hasn’t seen him in years, but it would be hard for Fjorm to forget her own cousin. “It’s Svöl, he’s one of the lords of Nifl. It’s a r— it’s a royal ship,” Fjorm stammers.

“Oh,” Sothe echoes, staring at her strangely. He moves to peek through the gap and eventually Fjorm does too, wondering if she’s about to see her family die.

It’s impossible to make out anything being said, but it doesn’t seem like Laegjarn tells Svöl about the Nifl refugee on board her ship. Slowly Svöl stops shouting back, and Laegjarn begins gesturing around madly. Fjorm watches her cousin sigh, and beckon his crew.

The Niflese sailors bring over chests full of valuables, and then they do something that would make Gunnthrá’s blood run colder; they lay down their arms. Inigo steps forward to take one of their rapiers, and Fjorm can feel Svöl’s ire from here, but he doesn’t do a thing. The pirates take all that they can carry and then vault back to their own ship, not a drop of blood spilled.

Fjorm watches in confusion as the other ship leaves, seemingly unscathed.

Laegjarn and the others are greeted with cheering and whooping, and Brady quickly checks them over for injuries. His hands linger on Inigo’s chest the longest but everyone eventually waves him off, and Sothe and Fjorm hurry over to join them. Laegjarn’s gaze falls on her again and Fjorm feels pinned under it, just like every other time Laegjarn has looked at her. Shaking off the feeling, Fjorm asks, “What happened?”

Laegjarn raises an eyebrow. “What did you expect would happen?”

Now all eyes are on her, which is just great. Fjorm _expected_ that they’d be boarded by Svöl and that everyone would be killed for taking the Niflese princess hostage, and then she’d be brought back to Gunnthrá who would kill her too. But she can hardly say any of that. Thankfully, Sothe cuts in, “Sylgr said he was a lord of Nifl. What was it? Lord Small?”

“Svöl,” Fjorm corrects quietly. The damage is, of course, done— she’s sure Inigo already has a hundred jokes at the ready. Laegjarn is still looking at her curiously, so Fjorm asks quickly, “What did you take?”

“Look for yourself,” the captain says, and kicks one of the chests forwards. Lewyn and Sothe set to opening it, and Fjorm doesn’t look. Not right away. She has a self-centred vision that when she looks inside, she’ll see her own tiara and her lance. But Leiptr is at home in her room in Nifl, and the shards that remain of her crown are tucked inside her ragged clothes.

The only valuables in the chest are maps, and diagrams of war plans. One of the other chests holds a lot of swords, and even a dozen canisters of explosive powder. Fjorm narrows her eyes at the war plans but Laegjarn seems to think better of her offer, and she steps forward, scooping the chest up under one arm. She retreats to her cabin and Fjorm doesn’t follow, staying with the crew as they exchange their stories about the attack. Cynthia and Inigo work on a rousing song about Lord Small, and Dart explains Laegjarn’s bluff— involving tomes of fire magic and catapults, all imaginary.

A quarter of an hour later Laegjarn returns. “I’ll send a messenger to my father with the new intelligence,” she begins, a little louder than necessary. “But, really, most of it were plans we already knew about. Nothing important enough to win the war.” Behind her, the small funnel on the roof of her cabin serving as a chimney exhales dark smoke.

Fjorm wonders what kind of Múspellian general would stumble upon Niflese war documents and just burn them without a second thought. Then again, what kind of pirate would board another ship only to give them a stern talking-to and not take _any_ of their riches? Laegjarn is an enigma.

Fjorm always goes to bed before Laegjarn, and by the time she wakes up, the captain is always gone. She knows that Laegjarn sleeps there, or at least that _someone_ does because in the morning the bed is always a rumpled mess. Fjorm takes to making it, only because otherwise she’s pretty sure it would never get made by anyone.

Gunnthrá continues to visit, and her nightmares become almost commonplace. It’s hard to describe them as nightmares when they’re so peaceful; Gunnthrá always sits with her in that quiet, white place for what feels like days although it never lasts more than a few minutes. Fjorm wonders where her sister is, just as Gunnthrá wonders the same about her; one night, Gunnthrá appears with her high white collar splattered with blood.

Fjorm waits for her sister to deliver her usual demands, but instead Gunnthrá merely sighs. “You know, the other day, Svöl returned from his mission empty-handed.” Fjorm freezes, but Gunnthrá does not notice. “I was very disappointed.” That explains the bloodstains. “Everyone lets me down… But I have faith in you, Fjorm.”

Fjorm hears a sharp noise and twists around to see the source. She ends up nearly falling out of bed, and awakes with a gasp. Gunnthrá vanishes and the white vision fades to darkness; the cabin is only lit by a lantern in Laegjarn’s hand. She’s getting ready for bed, wearing only a black slip— she looks startled to see Fjorm awake. 

“Just me,” Laegjarn reassures her. The strangeness of that strikes Fjorm. This is, of course, Laegjarn’s own bedroom— she shouldn’t be the one reassuring strangers. Fjorm calms herself down and politely averts her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Fjorm nods. “Just a bad dream,” she says. “About home.” She couldn’t guess why she added that last part; it’s none of Laegjarn’s business, and Fjorm doubts that she cares. The captain nods back, and she pulls her blankets around herself. She’s about to blow out her candle when Fjorm blurts out, “How can you trust me?”

Laegjarn looks over, cradling the lantern in her hands. “What?”

“I mean— how can you trust me to sleep here with you, in your private quarters?” She sits up in bed, turning to face Laegjarn. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal from you? Or just… slit your throat in the night, and take off on a rowboat?”

Laegjarn considers this. Her face twists. “Would you?”

It’s too much to say aloud because the answer should be an unequivocal yes. To say no would be treason. Fjorm shakes her head, and says quietly, “But that’s not the point.”

Silence falls between them, and Laegjarn blows out her candle and places it on her bedside table. Fjorm assumes that to be the awkward end of their conversation, but she doesn’t move, still propped up against the wall and staring at the woman in the larger bed. Finally, Laegjarn speaks. “For all that I could say about people from Nifl… I’ve always valued their honour. They always remain honourable, despite their many other flaws, and they believe so strongly in repaying their debts. Even in war they’re honourable.”

This glowing review of the nation that raised her should at least bring a smile to Fjorm’s face, but instead, she feels powerfully upset. It’s not hard to place why; her parents _had_ raised her to be honourable, and just, and fair, and loving, and to always repay favours and debts to the best of her ability, and to be a good person over being a good soldier. They had taught that to all her siblings; it was the Niflese way of life and learning. But now Laegjarn’s words just echo around her hollow chest, reminding her of Gunnthrá, and of their parents, and of everything that happened.

“Or, they used to be,” Laegjarn says. Fjorm realizes Laegjarn is still staring at her and feels a twinge of discomfort under that heady gaze. She wants to lash out and demand to know why Laegjarn spends all her time watching Fjorm instead of being a good pirate or a good general or doing literally anything more useful. But of course, she doesn’t— she hides her face. It would do no good to let Laegjarn see that she’s upset, so she lies back down and sighs quietly.

The captain continues, subdued, “Múspell used to be known for that kind of honour in battle too.” She’s talking about Surtr, of course. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. Fjorm has heard of Laegjarn’s terrifying reputation, although nothing she’s seen since her arrival on the ship has matched up to those tales. 

It’s difficult to imagine the woman next to her as Laegjarn, the harbinger of death and destruction, known for winning almost every fight she’s ever entered. Hríd once told them a story about encountering Laevatein on the battlefield, and Fjorm remembers Gunnthrá and Ylgr hanging onto his every word. He’d said she looked young, and when Ylgr had looked confused, Hríd reminded his siblings, _‘Well, she is the younger sister, after all’._ They had all shuddered at the thought of facing someone worse than the leader of Surtr’s fleet of wyvern knights. 

That was so long ago that it hurts how many details she can’t remember. And if Laevatein and Laegjarn were already that notorious before the first war had even ended, then that means they’ve been fighting their whole lives. Surtr must not have given them a childhood at all, which might explain Laegjarn taking off with Mímisbrunnr and a stolen crew to waste time at sea. Fjorm feels a surge of familiar anger towards Surtr, but when she tries to think about Laegjarn with that same fury, it’s impossible. She’s supposed to hate Laegjarn— all Múspellians, but Laegjarn especially. But, really, Laegjarn couldn’t have possibly been responsible for what happened…

Wrapped up in her own thoughts, Fjorm finally drifts off again. Then, right as she’s falling asleep, Laegjarn says, “Besides. If you weren’t here, there’d be nobody around to make my bed.”

Fjorm is suddenly very grateful for the darkness of the cabin, as her usually cold and pale face flushes with heat and colour.


	2. Spring

Laegjarn knows who their stowaway is from the first moment she lays eyes on her.

How could she not? Even after a week in the brig, there’s no mistaking someone who looks like that. The starved, dehydrated, and scared look could have belonged to any refugee, but Laegjarn _knows_. It’s in the princess’ eyes; no fear could be great enough to hide that regal iciness.

No pictures in the Múspellian library depict the Niflese royal family but she’s heard stories from Laevatein and Helbindi about how they look. Their eyes icy blue, their hair all blooming in different shades. She’d always thought that they might be her age; childish fantasizing. When the Niflese children had taken over their parents’ roles in the war, Laegjarn had abandoned that romanticism.

The realization is simple work that only takes a handful of seconds. Surely this isn’t Gunnthrá because if the new queen of Nifl is hiding in her warship, then Laegjarn is done for. So that’s out of the question. She’s not her brother either, and the littlest Niflese princess is a child. That leaves Fjorm, Gunnthrá’s right hand and close ally. 

One look at Lewyn makes it obvious that he knows too.

She doesn’t know whether to shake the truth out of the princess’ frame or to kill her immediately. Their secret stowaway must have been eavesdropping; Laegjarn can’t imagine how else she would have occupied her time down there. Their brig, much like the prisons back on Múspell, was not made for surviving. It was a place to forget people in, which was why nobody had bothered to check it for stowaways since their departure.

Then Fjorm coughs, and sympathy courses through Laegjarn, inviting in vulnerability. She doesn’t throw Fjorm overboard, nor does she torture her into revealing intel about the war. The inaction should feel like embracing a death sentence, but she only feels… sad. Stressful, of course; fascinating, yeah. But terrifically sad, in a way that Laegjarn can’t quite comprehend.

The full weight of her mistake doesn’t sink in when she pulls their prisoner out of her hideyhole, nor does it sink in when Sully carries her across the deck for the whole crew to see. Not even when she sits in Laegjarn’s cabin and begins to thaw in front of her fireplace.

Fortunately for everyone, the captive still has her wits about her. When she gives the name ‘ _Sylgr’,_ it’s all Laegjarn can do not to gawk. She’s grateful for the privacy because the crew surely would have laughed at that. She’s still unsure if Fjorm is as stupid as she looks, or if she knows that Laegjarn identified her correctly and is trusting her to stay silent.

Whatever the case is, Laegjarn stays silent. She doesn’t mention Fjorm’s real name, heritage, or family. If she did, she knows that she’d have to go all the way back to Múspell to bring Fjorm to her father as a prisoner of war or some shit. Laegjarn has no intention of cutting her voyage short, even if it is a voyage without a set destination.

The thought that keeps returning to her mind unbidden is that Laevatein would hate her for doing this. For saving Fjorm. If the horrors of war and all the friends and family that Nifl took from them weren’t enough, then their upbringing had ensured and cauterized their hatred of the cold, brutal kingdom. Surtr branded that hatred into them, and so an act of treason like this would break her little sister’s heart.

But when Laegjarn looks at Fjorm, she doesn’t think about the feud between their kingdoms. Instead, she can’t help but remember all those stupid nights spent wide awake in the royal library, reading up about tactics when she should have been sleeping and conserving her strength. She remembers her lips curling with loathing as she read about the history of Nifl and its longstanding feud with Múspell. She remembers imagining seven-foot-tall warriors with ice-cold lances, terrifying and relentless in their onslaught against Múspell. Their core beliefs had not been so different— honour before glory but death before treason.

And in the same breath, she remembers when she learned that the Niflese king and queen had not one or two children, but four. For so long, she’d had no doubts about her father’s will or methods. But even back then she remembers wondering what those children were like, and if they harboured the same secret thoughts that she did.

So there are two reasons, equally ridiculous, why she doesn’t turn Fjorm in or call her out. The third is that when she looks at Fjorm curled up in her armchair, flummoxed and shocked by every new kindness shown to her, Laegjarn has to change her mind. She doesn’t look stupid at all, really.

  
  


When Laegjarn leaves her cabin, the Mímisbrunnr’s crew have gathered on the deck. This doesn’t surprise her; what’s _astonishing_ is that nobody pressed their ears to the door to listen in. Inigo appears delighted for some reason, but most of the others are confused, dismayed, or both. Dart and Sothe are wearing matching faces, and Laegjarn wishes she had a mirror to show them.

She clears her throat, addressing her assembly of pirates. “... Everyone. We need to do a better job inspecting the ship to avoid surprises like this in the future.”

And with that, she turns to head back into her cabin— of course, the crew has none of it. Sully scoffs. “Seriously?”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Cynthia begs, soft with concern.

Laegjarn wants to throw her hands up and ask what will happen to all of them, now that they’re harbouring Niflese royalty without telling Surtr. She forces herself to remain as professional as she can, trying to summon some of her old dignified language from when she was General and not Captain Laegjarn.

“The… stowaway… is a refugee from Nifl. Her name is Sylgr—” Lewyn barks out laughter and tries to disguise it as a sneeze— “and she will be staying on board for now. And… for now, she’s under our care. That means that none of you are going to tell my father about this.”

Sothe sighs, dragging his hands down his face. Brady steps forward. “But, Captain—”

“I know it’s irregular,” Laegjarn interrupts. “But I hope that I shouldn’t have to tell you all that I’ve stopped caring about what’s regular. This war— really, this lifetime of war has driven it out of me. I just don’t… This woman is taking refuge from a brutal and relentless country, and I’m not going to send her back there. And we are _not_ going back to Múspell.”

“Laegjarn,” Lewyn begins. When she turns to glare at him, he raises his hands in surrender. “No, no, not dissenting. I’m obviously not going to send word to Surtr. Aye aye, cap’n, all that crap.”

The rest of the crew agrees, nodding. Laegjarn searches each face for individual approval. When everyone seems to go along with Sylgr and Laegjarn’s crazy and stupid lie, she finally breathes deep and lets herself relax.

“I’m just wondering,” Lewyn continues, “if this _might_ have something to do with your own situation—”

“No.”

“It’s only, you _have_ to admit there are some similarities—”

“I have nothing in common with the— with _Sylgr,”_ Laegjarn corrects herself. She thinks she sees Sully roll her eyes, but it’s hard to tell because Sully often has that air. “Firstly, I’ve had the opportunity to eat since yesterday, while she’s been starving. So, how about we change that? Someone bring our stowaway some food, and the rest of you get back to work!”

Lewyn groans but acquiesces, returning to the helm. Stahl and Sully scurry away to the kitchen, leaving Laegjarn with her hands on her hips and no one to preach to or yell at. She’s glad everyone agreed— she’d hoped they would. Their true loyalty doesn’t lie with Surtr or Múspell. It is definitely who they _should_ be working for, but Laegjarn would like to think that they’re closer to her. 

She’s been sailing with this crew for almost a year now. They set sail when she made the decision that she wasn’t going to spend all her good years fighting an endless war for her father and kingdom. It was easier than expected to repurpose a navy warship for her expedition, and Surtr had even supplied her with a crew.

Not Múspellian sailors, of course. No one so useful. Heroes compose her ragtag crew, lent out to Laegjarn through her father (and Múspell’s) alliance with Embla (and Princess Veronica). In a way, she prefers this situation to any hypothetical crew that would have hailed from her world. They all have interesting stories, and none of them judge her too harshly for what she’s done in the past. Even if that’s only an obligation in their contract, Laegjarn still appreciates it.

She gets so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she fails to notice the sole crew member still left behind; Sothe, whose gaze has not moved from her in minutes. He steps forward, drawing her attention, and says, tone conversational, “I think it would be too much for me to hope that you know what you’re doing.”

Laegjarn bristles, and then in the next breath she deflates. “I don’t… I… no, not really. But what am I supposed to do? Take her back home?”

“That ice queen would kill her,” Sothe muses. “And then she’d kill us.”

“I meant, back to my home. Back to Múspell.”

“So that Surtr can kill her instead?” The thief laughs without humour. “And then _he’d_ kill us?”

Laegjarn chews her lip, not wanting to think about how her father would react to a homecoming. From her correspondence, it’s clear that Laevatein returns home on a regular basis, and Surtr has never taken out any of his rage towards Laegjarn on her sister. Or at least, if he has, Laevatein hasn’t mentioned it.

Sothe frowns, reading the worry on Laegjarn’s face. “Did she say why she was running away from home?”

“She said that her life would be in danger if she stayed there.” Laegjarn hums. “I mean, from what I’ve heard about Gunnthrá, she’s probably right.”

“And what if she’s just a spy?”

The thought is almost amusing. Laegjarn shrugs. “She’s not likely to learn much about the war effort from watching our crew, so… it’s… that’s a risk I’m going to have to take. But, for what it’s worth, I trust her.”

“Right,” Sothe says. “Of course. I mean, who wouldn’t trust her? Randomly showing up like that... and _nobody_ loves Nifl more than you do!”

She pleads, “Just… let’s give it a try. Maybe she’ll be an asset, I mean… I don’t know. We’re going to give it a try, alright?”

“Alright,” Sothe says. Laegjarn wonders if he even intended on putting up a real fight. He walks away mumbling something under his breath, and she fights the urge to toss Níu at the back of his head.

  
  


Laegjarn’s memories of the first war are foggy. She remembers individual battles: the first time she saw the young Princess Veronica in their battle room, preparing to enter the theatre of war, or the last time she saw her cousins Eisa and Heitr. She remembers the day that Gunnthrá declared a new war on them with perfect clarity.

It did not feel like a new war since most of Múspell had spent so long fighting the freezing onslaught of Nifl’s forces. But her people were starting to gain hope. It was visible on their faces when she and Laevatein passed through the smaller towns, or when they stopped at army outposts. Exhaustion was melting away under the promises of peace, and Múspellians began to dream of living as civilians.

That all changed when the declaration came. Laegjarn remembers her sister’s unemotional reaction most of all. Laevatein’s apathetic face had scared her more than any tears or anger would. The quiet hope that they had been kindling in private— the same fervour carrying their nation— died that day, and took a part of Laevatein with it.

By entering the war again, Gunnthrá had shattered peace treaties that her parents had taken a long time to broker with Surtr and all his top generals. Right now there’s a tasteless joke circulating the Múspellian troops about the alleged assassination of Gunnthrá’s parents. It’s got a killer punchline, but Laegjarn hopes to the gods that nobody is stupid enough to say it around Fjorm.

She doesn’t know what happened to the previous queen and her king. Either Surtr is lying and it was in fact an assassin from Múspell, or the horrible rumours about Nifl’s interim queen are true. She supposes she could ask Fjorm, but she already struggles with talking to the ice princess. There is no casual way to broach the question of whether her sister murdered their parents. If the situations were reversed… well. It is impossible for Laegjarn to imagine.

This current iteration of the war is less than two years old, but Laegjarn has never known a world where Múspell and Nifl have been at peace. They were close before the queen and king died; at least, that’s what Helbindi and a thousand other whisperers told her. They nearly made it out.

The state of the war weighs heavily on Fjorm too. Although Laegjarn tries not to watch too intently, she begins to notice signs. Any mention of Nifl causes the space between her eyebrows to crease. When Dart makes an off-handed and off-colour comment about Múspell, Laegjarn watches Fjorm’s fingers dig into the meat of her thigh like she’s struggling not to speak.

Most of the crew has the common sense not to discuss politics around her but Laegjarn catches the cooks wrapped up in the occasional conversation about Nifl. She likes eavesdropping on these; it’s always endearing to watch Sully yelp when she’s been found out, and it’s… illuminating. They don’t discuss Gunnthrá or the royal family at all, just the customs and traditions. If Surtr or Laevatein were to witness a conversation like this, they would consider it sedition and kill everyone involved. But Laegjarn’s intellectual curiosity wins out over her loyalty to her homeland, and so she often finds herself standing around the corner and listening to ‘Sylgr’ talk about Nifl.

At night, they sleep in Laegjarn’s cabin together. Of course, they each keep to their separate bed, and Laegjarn’s work as captain usually keeps her awake long after Fjorm retires for the night. Usually, the spare bed is meant to provide a place for Laevatein to sleep, should she and her wyvern battalion come to visit the ship. When Laegjarn initially offered the bed to Fjorm, she had justified it as the best way to keep an eye on her.

There is no justification for why she continues to let Fjorm sleep there even when the crew points out that there are extra cots and hammocks available below deck. Laegjarn sticks by her reasoning and nobody raises any questions.

Fjorm doesn’t seem to mind the proximity. She seems unaccustomed to some of the basic comforts in the captain’s cabin— the fireplace in the adjacent study captures her attention especially. One night Laegjarn turns in early, tired from her turn working the sails, only to find Fjorm curled up by the dying fire.

“Fjorm,” Laegjarn begins to say before she catches herself. Luckily, the break in their deception goes unnoticed as Fjorm doesn’t stir. “Sylgr…?”

She’s struck by the similarities between this princess and Laevatein. When Laevatein was younger Laegjarn would always catch her napping in random places around the castle— sometimes random enough that it looked like someone had caught her off-guard with a sleeping tome. Her sister has the same brutal history as Fjorm and just as many kills notched into her weapon, and a similar stubbornness that manifests itself as loyalty.

But even if Surtr threatened her life (or… if Laegjarn did, in this hypothetical case) Laevatein would never defect. She would sooner die as a punishment for her perceived failings than take refuge on a Niflese ship, and she would certainly never trust the said captain of that ship.

Fjorm doesn’t even have a weapon on her; she’s wearing borrowed pirate clothes, and if not for that bright hair she’d almost look like a proper crew member of the Mímisbrunnr. Her icy eyes are hidden but her frame is still taut as if she could wake up and spring into action. In fact, the longer that Laegjarn observes her, the more it becomes clear that although she’s curled up by the fire Fjorm is anything but comfortable. Her hands have twisted into tight fists, wrinkling the fabric of her shirt. She mutters something with no sound, and an emotion passes over her face that makes it look like she might burst into tears while still asleep.

“Enough of this,” Laegjarn decides. She steps close enough to touch Fjorm’s shoulder, but before she can disturb her she hesitates. The princess is so tightly wound up, and Laegjarn knows she has hidden strength. She doesn’t reach out and instead moves to kneel between Fjorm and the fire, raising her voice. “Wake up!”

Sure enough, Fjorm startles; her eyes shoot open and her hands flail. She’s breathing hard, but when her gaze settles on Laegjarn it takes only a handful of seconds for her to school her emotions back into neutrality. It’s a regal and dignified apathy that Laegjarn recognizes from both Laevatein and from her own mirror.

They stare at each other, both tense. Laegjarn relents first, ducking her head. “My intention wasn’t to startle you. I just thought you were having another bad dream, and I wanted to help.”

Laegjarn watches as Fjorm forces herself to move, perhaps remembering her surroundings and situation. “I was,” she finally says, voice hoarse and low. Laegjarn’s chest twists. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Laegjarn wants to confront her about her dreams, her identity, or her plans for the future. About anything. She suddenly feels sickened by the facade they’ve agreed on— does Fjorm truly think that little of her? That she wouldn’t be able to figure it out? She wants to know the contents of Fjorm’s nightmares and what she _really_ thinks of Laegjarn. 

But that last part is foolish and self-centred enough that it jerks her out of her thoughts, back into the present where Fjorm still stares at her. Laegjarn adds, “Well. And. It’s not good for you to sleep curled up like that, you’ll wake up feeling like shit.”

Fjorm blinks a few times before her cold stare thaws out. A smile spreads over her face, slow and beautiful. She looks radiant. The weight of that smile, the first one she’s seen on Fjorm since they found her on board, paralyzes Laegjarn. The princess uncurls from her taut position, standing from the chair slowly— Laegjarn backs up so fast she almost jumps into the fireplace.

Fjorm moves past her and even as her smile fades, the warmth in Laegjarn’s chest is here to stay now. Fuck. The stowaway pauses at the door to the cabin’s bedroom, turning so that she can glance at Laegjarn over her shoulder. She yawns, and then: “Will you come to bed now?”

Double fuck.

Laegjarn is so tired that she could probably pass out in a flat minute. She waves Fjorm off with “I’ve got more work to do,” and the princess nods and heads inside the bedroom. She leaves the door slightly ajar. Before Laegjarn throws herself into the fire on purpose or does something even stupider, she turns on her heel and runs from the cabin.

Dart laughs when she returns to help him on the sails, but the distraction is good. Laegjarn works until the early hours of the morning, and finally, when she retires, Fjorm does not stir.

  
  


When land appears on the horizon it lifts everyone’s spirits; even the Heroes who have spent most of their lives at sea are glad for shore leave. The only person not delighted is Fjorm, who asks (as neutrally as she can sound without being outright glum) how long it will take for them to reach it.

“Not long at all! We’ll be there tonight,” Cynthia yells down the mainmast. The crew rejoices but Laegjarn keeps watching Fjorm shrinking into herself. It isn’t hard to guess why— land means that they can finally dump their stowaway and that Fjorm will have no excuse to hang around in their safety as a refugee anymore.

Laegjarn wants to talk with her about it but there’s no time; her duties keep her busy all day, while Fjorm seems to be everywhere that she isn’t. Laegjarn wonders if she’s back hiding in the brig again— or more likely, if she’s saying her goodbyes to Stahl and Sully.

They reach the shore before nightfall, docking at the small island of Bodulmac. Technically this land is Askr territory, but no one is wary. Before Gunnthrá assumed control of the throne Nifl and Askr had been allied, but that alliance has since decayed entirely. Embla and Múspell are still allies, but Laegjarn doesn’t think that they risk retribution from the Askrans by doing business here. More than anything else Bodulmac is a trading port for merchants from all nations— no one pays them any mind when they dock, nor when her crew scurries off in eight different directions.

Stahl stays behind on the ship, alone except for Fjorm. Laegjarn is preparing to go meet with her contact on the island when she remembers the precious Niflese cargo that _isn’t_ from Svöl’s ship, and she hurries back to her cabin. 

The lost princess stands by the table and stares down at the map of the sea. Her jaw is set. If she hears the captain come in, she does not let it show.

“We’ve landed,” Laegjarn says cautiously. “In case you missed all the yelling and cheering.”

“In Bodulmac,” Fjorm says. She points it out on the map with a letter-opener; Laegjarn wonders what other kinds of knives she’s held. In their time spent together, she’s never thought to inquire much about Fjorm’s fighting strategies— it might be too much for ‘Sylgr’ to discuss, but maybe someday… except no, that’s not right, Fjorm is leaving. “I don’t think Askr will welcome me as a refugee.”

“You could dye your hair,” Laegjarn half-jokes. Fjorm twists to stare at her, blue eyes piercing. She can’t dye those. “Really, though— if they don’t crucify _us_ here, then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s not the point,” Fjorm sighs. “What I meant is that I don’t know where I will be welcomed, now that I’m on the run from G.. well, from Nifl itself.” This spoken confession seems to sap her of her energy, and Laegjarn feels for her. It must be difficult for a religious and highly patriotic leader to turn tail on her country and all its beliefs.

Laegjarn thinks about the books she’d read on Nifl as a child, and about Fjorm’s skill with blades, and she can’t bring herself to lie. She wonders how long this reply has been sitting inside her mind, waiting to come out. 

“You’re welcome here,” she says. Fjorm doesn’t actually pale, but something in her expression crumbles. Like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “For as long as you need. My crew won’t say a word, and I have more important problems to spend my time worrying over, _Sylgr_. So if Bodulmac was your only option, then know that you now have another place to stay.”

“Laegjarn,” the woman begins, haltingly. Laegjarn can already hear the whole sad speech; _I’ve been lying to you, I’m not just any refugee, you’re endangering yourself tenfold by keeping me around_. Yadda yadda yadda.

“Stahl’s on the main deck keeping watch,” she interrupts. “Maybe he’ll have something for you to do.”

Fjorm nods, but Laegjarn can see the spark of knowing amusement on her face and the joy in her eyes. She wonders when she became so trained at observing the minute changes in the expressions of a literal ice princess. She wonders if Bodulmac will have any books on Niflese history so that she might learn more.

  
  


The island is as beautiful as ever; Laegjarn hasn’t landed here in months, but she remembers her way around. Judging by the disappearance of the crew they all kept this place in their memory too. The port is too crowded for comfort but most traders don’t give her a second glance. These days, Laegjarn dresses more like a pirate than a general, and pirates are known for selling their goods here, not stocking up on every delicacy Bodulmac has to offer.

She does stop for some fruit, at a wooden stand held together by rope and prayer. The boy acting as the merchant is far too young to charge her the right price, but Laegjarn overpays anyway. It’s not like they can’t spare the gold. She even lets him hold Níu and teaches him the right stance— maybe that’ll come in handy when their other patrons are less friendly. Afterward, a shopkeeper beckons her over to see their selection of wedding dresses and Laegjarn bolts. Best not to dawdle.

Her contact here is a trader too, and a shopkeeper, and a very, _very_ familiar face. They’d first met when Laegjarn mistook her for another woman named Anna, a commander in the Askran forces. This Anna didn’t recognize her at all, and thus their odd business relationship had begun. 

Laegjarn hesitates to call it friendship because they haven’t kept in touch over the months apart. But when she sees Anna at the back of the same bar she left her in, deep in conversation with another redheaded woman, their eyes meet and Anna waves her over, grinning.

“I heard you were on your way back here,” the trader says, dismissing her previous conversation without hesitation. The mage sighs but leaves without complaint. “You’re looking well!”

“As are you,” replies Laegjarn, taking the newly vacant seat. Anna offers her a half-emptied mug of some dark liquid, and Laegjarn shakes her head. She trusts Anna, but she knows better than that. “How’s business?”

“Better now that you and the Mímisbrunnr are in town!” Anna cranes her neck to peer over the edge of the table. Laegjarn rolls her eyes, but hands over some of the plundered loot from the Niflese ship— namely, an ornately decorated dagger. “Ooooh, is that the royal crest? You’re too good to me, Captain.”

“My crew has the rest. We didn’t take much except their dignity, and I can’t resell that. And I’m keeping the ammunition,” she hastily adds. Anna looks a little disappointed but the dagger in her hands quickly appeases her. She twirls it back and forth, observing its make and design, before offering a heavy pouch as payment. Laegjarn takes the money, thinking idly of fruit. “I haven’t seen many Niflese ships these days.”

“They’re keeping busy, of course,” Anna mutters, jabbing the dagger into the air harmlessly. The sight, for reasons unknown, makes Laegjarn think of Fjorm and her letter-opener. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Laegjarn blinks. “Sorry about what?”

“The—” Anna stops, grinding the tip of the blade into the soft wooden table. She stares, and then abruptly becomes very embarrassed. It’s not an expression Laegjarn has seen her wear before, and it alarms her. “Have you really cut off contact entirely with Múspell, then? Oh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news…”

Her stomach twists into knots as if it can sense a storm on the horizon. She demands, “What?”

“Skírr is gone.”

Anna sounds so gentle and nervous that her words don’t register at all for a moment. Skírr, a peaceful town in Múspell known for its horses and farms, is well out of the path of its nation’s war with Múspell. Laegjarn shakes her head. “How can it be _gone—_ it’s an entire town. What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s gone.” Anna clearly doesn’t want to share more details, but something changes as she watches Laegjarn, and she relents. “It was attacked by invading Niflese forces a week ago. They… You don’t want to hear this, Captain.”

Laegjarn’s nails dig into her knees. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know what kind of magic they used, but they must have had a whole battalion of mages. They froze the town. In… in its entirety.” Anna was right— Laegjarn doesn’t want to hear this. She imagines entire stables encased in ice, and enemy forces extinguishing fires that have burned since before Surtr’s reign, leaving frost and silence in their wake when there was bright, loud, happy love there. There were honest workers there, and families who knew as much about the war as they knew about the moon. “And then they demolished everything.”

Laegjarn’s heart splinters. She can picture it perfectly.

  
  


The sombre news cuts their trip short, and the journey back to the ship is a blur. At some point, Lewyn must have tried to offer support by holding her arm, because Laegjarn vividly remembers shoving it off. Even though she declined Anna’s drink she wonders if the atmosphere of the bar took some effect on her anyway, because surely it can’t just be the grief worsening her mood like this. She can hardly speak.

The crew tries to rally around her; when Stahl and Fjorm see everyone returning (earlier than expected) they pick up on the mood and try to help too. Maybe Laegjarn just looks that rough; when she hands Fjorm a crate of fruit and makes brief eye contact, she can see how nervous the princess looks. Concerned, probably for her own fate.

Laegjarn blinks and sees, in her mind’s eye, Skírr and all its residents frozen. She sees horses being shattered; organic matter breaking like glass. She feels incredibly guilty— guilty that she wasn’t there to stop it, and guilty that she only found out about it a week later, and guilty for harbouring a Niflese princess on her ship. And most of all, she feels guilty for the way that she hands the crate over, ensuring her hands don’t so much as touch Fjorm’s.

She feels like a general once more. Back then, when she’d first set sail from home, she had had a decorum and prudence that most people lacked. Embracing life at sea as a pirate captain had meant abandoning some of those ideals, and adapting to a new standard of living. But now Laegjarn finds herself missing all the routine of war. She can’t shake the guilt— she should have been there to stop it.

That night, they start a fire onboard the Mímisbrunnr. Fire on a wooden ship is never a good idea, especially when they’re technically a ship of _pirates_ that follows no laws but their own. But the smoke spiralling up past the sails doesn’t attract anyone to their position, and as they sail away from Bodulmac, making a temporary camp on the deck seems to raise spirits.

“I’m sorry,” Laegjarn speaks, breaking the silence. Everyone was surreptitiously staring at her anyway, but now all eyes are openly watching her. “We didn’t have to leave so suddenly on my account.”

“Well, you’re the captain,” says Dart. His voice is gruff but free of anger. “Where you go, we go.”

“I… suppose. I just meant,” she sighs. “I know some of you were looking forward to shore leave on the island, even for only a night or two.”

Sully shrugs. “It’s only Bodulmac. ’Sides, we stocked up. That’s all I wanted.”

Laegjarn looks around the circle. Everyone seems to agree with the chef, nodding or smiling, and she exhales. “Thank you.”

“So, um,” Cynthia pipes up before silence can take over again. “Did— did you ever get the chance to go to Skírr? What’s it like?”

“No, I… I don’t want to talk about it.” Laegjarn ducks her head.

Before Cynthia can bleat out an apology Inigo interrupts, rocketing to his feet. “No worries, Captain! I’ve got something to rally the troops.” He gestures to Lewyn, who reaches for his lute. 

Laegjarn bites her lip. If this is going to be some ode to the fallen town of Skírr, she’s going to walk her own plank. Thankfully, neither the bard nor the dancer says a word. Inigo starts spinning around and around, weaving between the seated crew and mimicking the smoke rising from their fire. Lewyn plays a softer song than he usually would, and every chord is harmonious and resonant.

It’s hardly a shanty, but Laegjarn can see that Inigo’s performance really is rallying the troops. The ship creaks beneath them and the ocean rushes around it, but the quiet and familiar noises seem to complement the song instead of drowning it out. Brady is transfixed, as is Wil, and Fjorm— 

Fjorm is sitting very properly, legs crossed underneath her like she’s attending a prayer ceremony and not a pirate performance at sea. She is enraptured too, and when Inigo dances past her and blows her a kiss, she even manages a smile. Laegjarn’s stomach turns at the sight, and then she immediately hates herself for it. Why should it matter to her if Inigo is smiling at Fjorm, or if Fjorm smiles back? It doesn’t matter at all.

Seeing Fjorm makes Inigo change his tune— literally. He gestures for Lewyn to stop playing and then raises his arms above his head, demanding the attention he already had from everyone. “I know exactly what to do to cheer you all up. How about a ghost story?”

Brady blasphemes under his breath. “Inigo, that’s the _last_ thing the Captain needs—”

“It’s fine,” Laegjarn waves a hand. “I doubt Inigo could scare me if he tried.”

“Ha! Well, that hurts, but I’ll deal with it later!” Inigo winks at her, then, and Laegjarn laughs. “This story is set in the icy kingdom of Nifl, where many a lover has met their cold and untimely death. Nifl is scary on even the best day, but my particular tale tells the _chilling_ story of what you might see if you raise your eyes to the Niflese skies.”

Laegjarn sort of expects Fjorm to be offended, especially as Inigo continues. The story he tells is about a ghostly dragon that flies around the night sky, carrying one rider on its back and another in its claws, dripping blood and tears onto the kingdom. Some might mistake it for rain or snow, but those in the know would only need to look up to see the spectral dragon and its riders— both dead.

He stops here for effect, and Laegjarn glances around. She isn’t the only one waiting for ‘Sylgr’ to take offence; Stahl looks more stressed than Laegjarn has ever seen him, and Cynthia’s face has drained of colour entirely. 

But Fjorm’s only reaction is amusement. “I know this story,” she says. Stahl’s shoulders sink back down to their normal height. “It originally goes very differently… I wouldn’t call it _scary_ so much as tragic. Tragic and romantic.”

And Fjorm pauses after that to let Inigo continue, but now she’s captured the attention of everyone. Lewyn strums a chord, and when Fjorm realizes she’s expected to continue, her cheeks flush in the firelight. “Oh… ah, alright!”

Fjorm’s version of the Niflese ghost story doesn’t deal with ghosts at all, but with the lives they led before their ‘cold and untimely deaths’. As she tells it it’s obvious that Inigo is fighting the urge to dance along with her words, but eventually, the tale is captivating enough that even he sits still, transfixed. 

In Fjorm’s retelling of the ancient myth, the central character is a Niflese princess forced to turn into a dragon by an evil curse. The only magic powerful enough to reset the ugly curse is that of true love’s kiss. The dragon was chased away and had to forage for food and find shelter high in the beautiful but freezing mountains of Nifl. 

Years later, a royal knight, Ást of Nifl, hears tales of a giant wyvern terrorizing the towns in the foothills. She sets out, seeking to slay the beast, but when the hero and the dragon finally encounter one another, they fall in love. Fjorm describes this love with just as much reverence and tenderness as she describes the ruinous mountain ranges of Nifl, and it sets Laegjarn’s mind ablaze.

Unfortunately for the lovers, they never kiss and end the princess’ curse. Another hero learns about the giant wyvern in the hills. He is known only as ‘The Destroyer’: a cruel man who revels in pain and cares only for money. Hoping that the wyvern might keep a hoard of treasure, the Destroyer comes to the caverns where the dragon has made her home. 

Before Ást can save the princess, the cruel Destroyer murders the dragon. Ást strikes out in rage and grief, and the Destroyer turns his blade on her. Ást wins the fight but has lost her love, and soon after, she dies of blood loss in the frozen cave.

“So that’s the explanation behind the two humans that accompany the lost princess,” Fjorm smiles at Inigo, who looks a little gobsmacked by the harsh ending. “I remember that story from when I was a kid; everyone would joke about it whenever it rained.”

“I remember something like that too,” Laegjarn interrupts. Their eyes meet across the fire. “It almost never rains in Múspell, but… we had a version of that. Different, but with similar themes. And just as bleak an ending.”

Fjorm stares at her. The rest of the crew is still seated around them, but for some reason, it feels like only the two of them are on board— that is, until Inigo crows, “We’re waiting!”

“Well, our story was set in Múspell, obviously. Every child knows it, they used to put on pantomimes… It was about a princess who had been cursed to fall in love with a dragon. The dragon kidnapped her and no one could find her for years until the brave knight Sverð was put to the task. He tracked down the beast in its lair and slew it, freeing the princess from her curse.”

Laegjarn shivers suddenly and moves close to the fire before she continues. “Except it didn’t work. The dragon’s enchantment was so powerful that it held fast even after its death, and its murder only served to enrage the princess. Blinded by the curse and her anger and grief, the princess killed Sverð. Afterwards, finally, she recognized the knight, and she realized what she'd done. And then she killed herself out of guilt.”

Sully whistles. “These are some fucked-up bedtime stories.”

Fjorm doesn’t seem shaken by the brutal ending. Laegjarn could swear that she hasn’t even blinked. She just nods, and says, “Ah, I understand. Sverð is the Destroyer.”

Laegjarn retires early that night, feeling a little ill. She falls unconscious before she hears Fjorm come to bed.

  
  


Sothe approaches her the next morning, posture already tense. Laegjarn wishes they had thought to buy coffee beans from Bodulmac; it would be easier to deal with the attention of her crew with a little help in the form of liquid energy. And the luxury would certainly make her feel more at home. “If it’s about Skírr, I still have no desire to talk about it. Nothing can be done to help those people now, and we’re _not_ returning to Múspell.”

“It isn’t about Skírr,” Sothe soothes. Laegjarn huffs, turning back to face the water. “It’s about… Sylgr. I don’t understand why she’s still here, Captain.”

“She didn’t feel safe in Askran territory.” Laegjarn watches some creature dip beneath the waves; a seal, maybe? “I told her she’s welcome to stay here as long as she wants.”

“You told her that?” Now Sothe is sighing. He moves to stand beside Laegjarn, leaning against the thick wooden barrier separating them from the sea. Salt and mist spray both of them every few waves, but the air is clean and the water is beautifully clear. It’s hard to retain anger looking at the ocean. “No offence, Captain, but have you _considered—_ ”

“Sothe,” Laegjarn warns. “It’s my decision. Besides, she… blends in well, and the crew likes her. In fact, the person most suspicious of her is _you_.” She glances over at the thief. “The irony there doesn’t escape me… Didn’t you tell me that in your world, you had once been a stowaway?”

“Sure, but I wasn’t a refugee. And I wouldn’t have taken refuge on an enemy ship. I was a stowaway, not an idiot with a death wish.” Sothe’s fingers curl around the edge of the railing. “I mean, doesn’t she _want_ to leave?”

A cough behind them interrupts their conversation. Laegjarn and Sothe spin around, both expecting Fjorm to be standing within earshot, waiting to be noticed. Instead, they see their stowaway-turned-pirate halfway up the mast, hanging off of Wil’s elaborate ropes and trying to climb and cough at the same time. Laegjarn is suddenly pierced with the fear that she’ll fall, and when she steps forward, she feels Sothe watching her.

Brushing off that gaze, Laegjarn moves forward to the mast. Fjorm’s baggy pants billow in the wind; if her shirt wasn’t tucked into them, it’d surely fly off her back. Laegjarn, trying very hard to keep her thoughts pure, regrets not buying fitting clothes for Fjorm in Bodulmac; then again, the only clothes she’d seen there were those god-awful wedding dresses. That would have been a very forward gift.

When Fjorm finally descends to report back to Lewyn and Dart, she jumps off near the bottom of the mast and lands right beside Laegjarn on the dock. “Oh,” she starts, before breaking into another coughing fit. “Sorry, I nearly crushed you!”

Laegjarn struggles to think of a polite way to say that Fjorm couldn’t crush her if she tried, and then struggles not to beg her to try. “That cough sounds awful. Have you always had it?”

“No,” Fjorm says. She doesn’t meet Laegjarn’s eyes. “But there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

And with that, she leaves. Laegjarn wants to call after her but she doesn’t want Fjorm to interpret it as an order, so she holds her tongue.

Fjorm’s coughing is pathetic. It demands pity, even now; even when she’s out of that dreadful hole, Laegjarn keeps catching her looking weak. This bothers her because she knows that Fjorm is decidedly _not_ weak. 

To be on the front lines of any war, you have to be strong. And Fjorm has been fighting Nifl’s war for long enough now that she would have died were she not capable. There is surprising strength in her small frame. She isn’t a particularly muscular woman nor does she have the mass to suggest that she might be capable of great feats. But as Dart and Stahl and Lewyn and Inigo all involve her in their hard work maintaining the ship, Laegjarn rarely sees Fjorm breaking a sweat, and she never complains.

The only indicator that something might be wrong with her health is that damned cough.

  
  


Sylgr has been with them for nearly a month when Laegjarn finally catches her in her lie.

They have both retired to the captain’s cabin for the night, but neither she nor Fjorm is tired. The monotonous days at sea have left the whole crew buzzing with energy, with nowhere to put it and nothing to do. Laegjarn is sweeping dust and detritus from the floor when she realizes Fjorm is waiting for her. The Niflese princess is standing in the bedroom’s open doorway, illuminated by the firelight and the candles behind her. The sight is unbearably intimate.

Laegjarn should snap at her; tell her not to wait up. She still looks regal, even in her pirate work clothes— her trousers sit high on her waist, and her shirt, meant to be worn low or even open, is buttoned right up to her collarbone. Her eyes are bright as ever, showing no sign of fatigue.

Putting the broom aside, Laegjarn offers, “Want to play a game before we turn in?” _We_ , she repeats mentally, a bit dizzy. If Fjorm is put off by it she doesn’t say a word, simply nodding and unfolding her arms.

She has cards, but she’s not very good at them, so they end up playing chess. Fjorm helps set up the board without talking much, and Laegjarn pulls the chairs into place so that they can have a proper game, facing each other. Fjorm makes the first move but Laegjarn is first to capture one of her pieces, and she catches Fjorm smiling distractedly— possibly unconsciously— as she decides her next move.

“This must be second nature to you,” Laegjarn says without thinking. “Strategizing like this, I mean. After all, are the battles we fight really so different from a game of chess?”

“The stakes are different,” replies Fjorm. She takes one of Laegjarn’s pawns, nudging the pieces together without actually knocking it over before removing it from the board. Laegjarn watches her hands and pictures them wrapped around a letter-opener. Or a lance. “But I enjoy chess… I used to play it with my family.”

“You did?” Laegjarn takes advantage of an opening, moving to take Fjorm’s knight. “The rules are the same, then?”

Fjorm watches her knight fall and blinks. “I don’t know. Is my goal to put your king in check?”

“The queen.” Laegjarn wiggles the little wooden queen. “The king is all-powerful; he can move in any direction and any number of spaces.”

“No— well— in _Niflese_ chess, that’s what the queen does.”

“Fascinating.” Laegjarn lifts the queen, staring at it. “I guess your sister and my father aren’t playing the same game, hm?”

Fjorm doesn’t answer. Laegjarn patiently waits but when Fjorm still doesn’t offer any sort of answer, she eventually glances up. Only then does she realize the mistake she’s made. Fjorm’s eyes are blown wide with terror, and her hands are white-knuckled around her knees. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to say that,” Laegjarn blurts out, somewhat desperate. She really didn’t mean to ruin their blissful ignorance.

Fjorm exhales. She comes clean quicker than Laegjarn had expected, given that she went to such great lengths to fabricate ‘ _Sylgr’._ It would have been embarrassing to continue the charade— or maybe, she was just tired of lying. When Fjorm finally speaks, there is that same determination and resolution to her voice as always. “So, if you know who I am, why don’t you just kill me?”

Laegjarn places the queen back down onto the board, careful. “Is that what you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know,” the princess replies. “I thought I would hate you.” 

Hearing this warms Laegjarn more than fire could. She leans forward, watching Fjorm carefully. “I _haven’t_ killed you. Even though I knew you were lying. I mean, we sleep— you sleep in my room.”

“Yes.” Fjorm breathes again, nearly shaking with the effort of it. “I… I wasn’t lying to you. I _am_ on the run from my… from Nifl. It’s become impossibly dangerous.”

“Because of Gunnthrá.”

Fjorm closes her eyes against the name and nods.

Laegjarn presses, “Dangerous for even you?”

“Especially for me.” Fjorm pulls her knees up to fold them underneath herself on the chair, sighing. “I’ve always trusted and loved Gunnthrá. I mean, you must understand what it’s like, having a sister. But it felt like more than that; she was my best friend, too. But, now that our parents are dead, war has taken root in my sister’s heart. She has done unspeakable things, she has… betrayed Nifl. She thinks she’s acting in the best interest of our kingdom but she’s driving us to destruction.”

Uncomfortable, Laegjarn’s thoughts fly to her own family. This all reminds her a little too closely of Surtr. _The all-powerful king…_

When she looks back at Fjorm, those blue eyes are watching her just as keenly as always. She still looks scared, so Laegjarn says cautiously, “Fjorm.” The name sits oddly with her; it’s too pretty for a pirate.

Fjorm’s mouth twitches like she might cry or laugh. “... Yes, Laegjarn?”

“I meant what I said before Bodulmac. You are welcome on this ship for as long as you need. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my relationship with _my_ kingdom, but… anyway, bringing you there as a prisoner of war wouldn’t help me at all. I don’t intend to go home anytime soon, and so I won’t take you back to Múspell. Or to Nifl.”

The only sound is the quiet creaking of the ship around them. Here, they can’t even hear the sea. Fjorm sits in silence, staying very quiet for long enough that Laegjarn wonders if she should offer further reassurance. Then, finally, she says, “Thank you, Captain.”

Laegjarn itches with the desire to hug her. She wonders if Fjorm’s skin would be cold. She stays in her own seat, returning to their game of chess. “Now, whose turn is it?”

  
  


Leaving the last island early has left them bereft of some supplies, so when they spot land on the horizon, Laegjarn tells Lewyn to set a course. The land turns out to be much larger than Bodulmac Island, with many more ships in port. Inigo is the first one to recognize it, shouting down from the crow’s nest, “Lantaine Harbour!”

“Oh,” the captain and her first mate realize at once, turning to each other. “Saber!”

Fjorm hears the declaration, of course, as she has been two steps away from clinging to Laegjarn’s side this whole week. Ever since coming clean about her real identity she’s been acting like a caged animal, which is an annoying thing to have on a ship. Laegjarn wants to help her relax so they can get some breathing room— no, that’s not the truthful reason. She wants to help Fjorm relax so that she doesn’t spend all her time sad and scared.

Lewyn begins speaking to their newest member without being prompted. “Ever been to Lantaine Harbour before?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Fjorm mutters.

“Right, I guess you probably wouldn’t’ve travelled much.” The bard squints at her, before breaking into an explanation. “Well, it’s no man’s land, not technically speaking. Embla doesn’t claim it, nor does Askr or any of the other nations. So it’s a popular vacation spot, as you can see.” He spreads his arms to gesture at all the distant ships dotting the harbourfront.

Fjorm crosses the deck, holding onto the handrail tightly with one hand. She lifts the other to cover her eyes from the sun. “Is it a trading port?”

“Not quite. It’s more known for its entertainment than any goods or industries, but it’s a great place to meet people!” Lewyn grins and follows Fjorm, and Laegjarn takes the wheel. He continues, “Back when we first set out from Múspell, there was another crew member with us. A Hero from another world named Saber. When we boarded here, he ran into some friends, and since then he’s been sojourning in the town. Probably still in the same bar we left him in.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Laegjarn mumbles. Fjorm turns, looking at Laegjarn over her shoulder. “He could have returned to Múspell by now.”

“Laegjarn was disappointed because she thought he was cool,” Lewyn sings. Laegjarn wants to draw Níu and vault it at him like a throwing knife. She doesn’t, although she does briefly entertain the thought of Saber as her new first mate.

“No,” she finally says, grouchy. Lewyn turns his dazzling smile her way, and she relents. “I was sad to see him go. I’d be sad to see any of you go.”

“Aw, the Captain thinks we’re all cool,” Lewyn laughs. Fjorm giggles too, quickly aborted but bright and delightful. He turns back to her and to the ocean. “So, Sylgr, are you gonna tag along on this one?”

Fjorm shakes her head, the remnants of her laughter dying on her face. In an instant, she looks just like she has all week, and Laegjarn suddenly can’t stand it anymore. “Lewyn, drive the ship,” she calls and then marches towards her cabin. “ _You_ , with me.”

She doesn’t turn around to check if Lewyn takes the wheel or if Fjorm follows. If the Mímisbrunnr crashes into Lantaine Harbour, Laegjarn will pay for the repairs herself. She storms through the captain’s study into their bedroom, and then pauses, stunned by that thought. _Their_ bedroom. It isn’t, of course— because the decorations are all hers, and Fjorm’s clothes take up less than half of the closet, and they aren’t even sharing a bed, but maybe if—

That way lies madness. Laegjarn embraces a different insanity, heading straight to the closet and rifling through it. A surprisingly familiar voice from behind her says, “So, you haven’t told any of them.”

“What?” Laegjarn whips around and the cloth in her grip brushes against Fjorm. They’re standing only a few feet apart, which isn’t a first but it feels different here in this room. Fjorm shut the door behind herself, and that makes Laegjarn flush until she thinks about it, and then it makes sense. Of course she shut the door. They’re hiding a secret together. When she thinks about that, she realizes right away what Fjorm means. “Oh! Of course I haven’t.”

“I don’t know if they’re ready,” Fjorm trembles. “I don’t know how they would react.” She must have forged some close friendships with the crew already, then.

“We don’t have to think about that now,” Laegjarn clucks and throws the coat at her. Fjorm almost doesn’t catch it in time. “Hey, try this on.”

“What?” Now Fjorm is the one floundering. She pulls the long shirt on over her tunic and then stares at Laegjarn, arms raised in the air in confusion. Laegjarn steps forward and reaches around Fjorm’s neck to retrieve the hood, pulling it up over her unmistakable hair. “Laegjarn…”

“Not yet,” she mutters, returning to the closet. The hood is a nice start, but not good enough. She retrieves a fine black scarf that was handmade for her back in Múspell and a long red cloak. “Here, these will help.”

Fjorm blinks but tries the clothing on with no further questions. The cloak dwarfs her but that does an excellent job of disguising her height, and she wraps the scarf around her chin and neck and collar.

The effect is close, but not perfect. Laegjarn sighs. “One moment.” She leaves, retrieving a dagger from the other room. She has none made with this particular task in mind, so this will have to do. 

When she returns, she closes the door behind her. Fjorm has moved the scarf underneath the hood, but she still looks confused— especially when she sees the knife, and when Laegjarn kneels before her and takes the edge of her cloak. “What is all this about?”

“Turn,” Laegjarn instructs, cutting through the excess fabric of the cloak as best she can. It rips easily, and soon she can see Fjorm’s ankles, meaning she’ll be able to walk. Fjorm turns, and Laegjarn keeps tailoring— when she’s finished, she sits back, satisfied with her quick work. “There.”

The problem is, it’s still Princess Fjorm of Nifl. Laegjarn had recognized her without a word spoken between the pair of them, and so there’s a good chance that others would be able to identify her even bundled up like this. She frowns. “I do not… I still think you would be recognized.”

Fjorm’s eyes widen. “Is this a… a disguise, so that I could go to the harbour?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t good enough.” Despite this, Fjorm smiles, spinning around again. Laegjarn gets to her feet, placing the knife down safely. “I thought you might like to go for a while; not— not for good, unless you want to leave the ship, but. You could see how it goes in Lantaine, and maybe… I mean, even if you come back with us, I thought it would be nice for you to get out of here.” She graciously doesn’t mention that Fjorm has been clinging to her side since the reveal. The more that she thinks about it, this is all a mistake because she doesn’t even really _want_ Fjorm to stop clinging to her side. Laegjarn repeats, “But it’s not good enough.”

Fjorm pulls the scarf up to cover her mouth, and then her nose. Her eyes are bright just like how they’d looked when she’d laughed up on the deck, soaking up the sunshine. Even as Laegjarn tells her the disguise simply wouldn’t work, she still looks happy. She still looks comforted.

So, of course, Laegjarn can’t resist. “I’ll leave it up to you,” she mutters, gathering the ripped fabric up in her hands. “We’ll reach land in an hour.”

  
  


The coastal town is as beautiful as Laegjarn remembers. The streets here are full of pleasant sounds; music, and laughter, and shouting but no anger. They anchor their ship and then head down the pier, leaving Sully behind this time so Stahl can come along.

Much to the surprise of the crew, Fjorm comes with them. Her disguise gives off the appearance of unseasonably warm wear, but enough people around them are wrapped up in silks and scarves and hoods that she doesn’t stick out as much as Laegjarn had suspected. Most of the crew seems delighted to have her around; Inigo and Cynthia link arms with her, singing their favourite sea shanty until enough passersby glare at them that Laegjarn has to shut it down.

When she meets Fjorm’s gaze, blue and vivid under her black and red clothing, the princess’ happiness is obvious. She abruptly feels like a bastard for not asking Fjorm if she wanted to come to Bodulmac, or onto any of their other adventures. Then she thinks about how this is the last leg of their expedition, and her spirits sink. She turns away from Fjorm, heading to the stalls with her chef instead to pick out supplies for the ship.

Inigo ends up dragging Brady off to some fool’s errand, and so Fjorm is left with Cynthia, who chatters in her ear about everything they see. When Laegjarn sees the woman politely nod for about the dozenth time, she takes pity on her. “Sylgr, will you accompany me to meet Saber?”

Locating their lost crew member takes longer than Laegjarn had expected. Lewyn’s joke turns out to be inaccurate; Saber isn’t at the same bar they left him at, nor at the next. Laegjarn starts off asking the barkeeps if they’ve seen a tall, cranky, venal man with red hair, but that description is too common to help. Even mentioning the missing eye doesn’t really narrow it down. 

Then a stranger approaches her with a glass of ale in hand— Laegjarn nearly brushes him off before he can speak, but he says, “Are you looking for help onboard your ship?”

“No,” Laegjarn says instinctively, before considering the man and his size. He doesn’t seem especially drunk. “Well… yes, we are, but from one particular man. Do you know someone named Saber?”

“I do! Saber’s from my world,” the stranger tells her, excited.

“So you’re a Hero?”

“That’s nice of you to say!” The man chuckles. “The name’s Valbar, and I’m from the same world as Saber. The world of Shadows, as they call it around these parts. I was pulled here by Askr and their Summoner, Kiran, to work in the Order of Heroes, but they’re experiencing… somewhat of a surge of Heroes at the moment, so I’ve been left to my own devices. I know Saber, though.”

“Can you take us to him?”

As it turns out, Lewyn wasn’t too far off. They do find Saber in the back of a smoky bar, boots kicked up on the table as he counts his earnings from some game. Valbar’s presence doesn’t surprise him, but when he sees Laegjarn he quickly takes his boots down and gets to his feet. “Captain!”

Laegjarn smiles. His sudden nervousness, something that looks very out of place on a man like Saber, is reminiscent of a graduate seeing an old teacher and not knowing how to address them. “Saber. Am I still your Captain, I wonder?”

“I had fun travelling with you and the crew; the only honourable pirates in all the worlds… so I don’t see why not,” the man decides. “If you’ll still have me.”

They shake on it, and then Laegjarn glances at Valbar. “Saber, this man told me he was once a… an acquaintance of yours?” If she thinks too hard about the multiple-worlds thing, she’s going to get a headache. “If you can vouch for him, we could always use a few more hands onboard the Mímisbrunnr.”

“Could you? I know just the fellows,” declares Valbar. Then, he walks right out of the bar. 

Fjorm and Laegjarn watch his departure in confusion, but Saber looks unfazed, returning to the table to pack up the game. “That’s just how he is, I guess. Sort of a package deal. Now, who’s this?”

“Sylgr,” Fjorm says, offering her hand. Saber shakes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Saber grins. “Now, let me settle up my tab of a few months, and we can get right on our way.”

Laegjarn doesn’t point out that they intend on staying the night in town; it’s probably best if he settles up his tab anyway. When he’s out of hearing distance, Fjorm steps into Laegjarn’s field of vision and tilts her head sideways. “Were you and him ever…?”

It takes a full minute for her meaning to sink in, and then Laegjarn balks at the implication. She reaches up to scratch the back of her neck, wishing that she was wearing a mask or scarf to cover her flushed face. “No. Saber is a handsome man, but I am not… Well. Men aren’t my thing.”

“Oh,” Fjorm nods, probably thinking something like ‘that’s cool, what a cool independent pirate captain’, and then _she_ realizes. “Oh!”

Saber returns before Laegjarn can ask Fjorm what her thing is, and the look on his face is not one of satisfaction that would properly befit someone who just paid their tab in full. He frowns. “Hey, Captain. Any chance I could borrow some gold?”

Laegjarn sighs, but reaches down to grab a fistful of gold coins from her pouch anyway.

  
  


It turns out that Valbar brings two more Heroes with him, but they’re both capable and Laegjarn likes the idea of having another good archer. She tells them, and Saber, that the Mímisbrunnr will set sail tomorrow at dawn. Then she and Fjorm go to the inn, where Lewyn has secured rooms for some of the crew who want to stay in town overnight. Or so Laegjarn thought, anyway.

She holds out her hand an embarrassingly long time waiting for her first mate to drop a second key into her palm. He stares at her oddly, apparently having forgotten that Fjorm would also require a place to sleep. Finally, Lewyn clues in, and says, “Well, aren’t you two sharing?”

“ _What_.”

“That’s fine,” interjects Fjorm quickly before Níu can make an appearance. “I’ll go back to the cabin for the night, it’s no problem.”

“Wait, no.” Laegjarn turns to the princess, not sure if she should feel guilty or disappointed. The strange mixture settles at the bottom of her stomach, leaving her to just feel… bad. “We can share a room. It’s no problem.”

“Great,” Lewyn says, pocketing the rest of the keys with a smile and disappearing into the bar.

Laegjarn sighs and Fjorm looks at her, nervous. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or to infringe on your space. I know you haven’t gotten a moment to yourself recently, so if you’d like me to sleep in the cabin, I’ll gladly do that.”

“But you haven’t been off the ship,” Laegjarn argues. “You should be the one out here experiencing the town. I mean, I’ve seen most of what Lantaine has to offer, and I’ll probably take an early night. And I don’t… _want_ a moment to myself. If I wanted that, I would have set off on my own, not with a crew.”

Fjorm doesn’t reply at all, keenly watching her. When she does speak, the words are precisely measured. “If you’re certain.”

“I am.”

And she is, until they climb the stairs to their room, turn the key in the lock, and open the door to see only one bed.

Both of them say in unison, “I’ll sleep in the cabin,” and then Fjorm smiles ruefully and Laegjarn laughs.

They put their bags down, and Laegjarn sits on the corner of the bed, drumming her fingernails against Níu’s sheath. “So… can Niflese people handle their drink?”

  
  


The answer to that question is a resounding no. The first round goes alright; a few coins net them a private space tucked away in the corner of the inn’s bar and a pitcher of bubbly, cold ale. It’s sweeter than expected, and Fjorm finishes her first glass before Laegjarn can finish hers. The peace afforded them by the secluded back room is nice, even if the ‘door’ blocking them from the outside world is just a thick curtain. 

The only one who comes in to interrupt is the barkeep, no doubt curious about the contents of Laegjarn’s purse. If the origin of the pilfered gold bothers him, he’s a very good actor and doesn’t show any dismay whatsoever. She orders another pitcher for when this one’s done, figuring that if she’s going to have to share a bed with Fjorm, then she might as well be drunk enough to fall asleep easily.

When he leaves, Fjorm fidgets with the scarf in her lap. Laegjarn sips her drink and tries to patiently wait for Fjorm to speak her mind, but the ice princess stays silent. Finally, Laegjarn demands, “What is it?”

Fjorm blurts out, “You don’t have to pay for me. You’ve already done so much for me; I mean, you’ve been protecting my life, and now all these luxuries… I have no way to repay you.”

“Hmm. It’s like I told Saber, you can just repay me by working on the ship. And, you don’t need to thank me for your… your life.” Now Laegjarn is the one fidgeting. “I know Nifl places a large value on repaying debts, but I promise that you are not in debt to me.”

“I am,” Fjorm insists. Somehow, Laegjarn is wholly unsurprised that she isn’t backing down on this. “You could have cast me out in the ocean the second you found me. Or you could have handed me over to Svöl.”

“No,” Laegjarn mutters, staring down into her glass. “No, I couldn’t have.”

This gives Fjorm pause. “... Well, why not?”

“I would have, once. Back when it was my job to eat, sleep, and breathe Múspellian ideas, I… yes, when I was a general, if I had encountered you, I would have killed you on sight.” She lifts her head and finds Fjorm still staring at her as she so often does. “Our countries might still be at war, but I am not fighting my father’s war anymore. I quit when I left on this expedition, and he knows that as well as I do. I think he’s overly confident in his own ability to win the war without me, or… maybe he truly doesn’t care and has written me off. I can only hope that that’s the case and that he has no further machinations… I don’t know,” she trails off. “I don’t know.”

Both of their hands are clenched so tightly around fistfuls of their own clothing that if Laegjarn digs her nails in deep enough, she can pretend that it is Fjorm’s hand she’s feeling, holding her own. With her free hand, Fjorm takes a long draught from her glass, and Laegjarn mimics her. Then Fjorm turns in her seat to face her more properly, and says, “I don’t think you would have killed me if I had only sought refuge. I’ve heard stories about the great General Laegjarn.”

“I’m sure you have,” Laegjarn mutters.

“I’ve heard that you were the most feared force in your father’s army, worse than even Helbindi or your sister Laevatein. But I heard, also, that you were fair. And honourable— I mean, the Niflese don’t think of any Múspellians as honourable, but in every story, General Laegjarn stuck to her word and never debased her ideals. Even if, you know, those were Múspellian ideals.”

For the first time, the feud between their countries sounds amusing instead of abhorrent. “Right.”

“So I am indebted to you,” Fjorm insists. “Because if I had found _you_ stowed away on a Niflese warship, I don’t know if I would have been so lenient. Well, more than lenient, really. Welcoming. And I… I don’t know if I would have been able to hide it from my family.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” Laegjarn frowns. “You aren’t… From what I’ve learned about you since you joined the crew, it’s hard for me to see you as cruel. You’re a hard worker, and you’re devoted, so… it makes sense that you would have been the perfect warrior in Gunnthrá’s army.”

Mentioning the current queen of Nifl might be a step too far. Fjorm doesn’t show her discomfort, but she does take another sip of her drink. “It’s frightening, how much in common we have. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it.”

“In a different world,” Laegjarn inhales slowly, “maybe—”

And then the curtain lifts without warning, neatly interrupting their discussion of feelings and families. Laegjarn grimaces as Fjorm panics, but there’s no need for her to replace the scarf over her face; it’s just Sully and Saber, who look at _least_ two sheets to the wind, if not three. “Hey, nobody told me you booked a _private room_ ,” Sully cheers, sliding in to sit beside Laegjarn. Valbar and his companions follow a moment later, and then Lewyn with a very happy Sothe propped up under his arm.

Laegjarn sighs, and searches out Fjorm’s eyes. Fjorm, the traitor, is _smiling_.

The rest of the night starts to blur. Wil stumbles in at one point, dressed to the nines in the best clothing Lantaine has for purchase, and then gets embarrassed when everyone compliments him (loudly and drunkenly). Valbar expounds on exactly why he doesn’t like pirates, but he then goes on to tell Laegjarn how grateful he and his friends are for this opportunity to travel the world. His friends introduce themselves as Kamui and Leon, and then start a game of cards with Lewyn and Sothe. Sully and Saber trade so many stories, most of them salacious enough to make Fjorm turn bright red. Or, actually, that might be the rounds and rounds of drinks.

“We’re going to bed,” Laegjarn announces when she hears Sully start to tell a story about Laegjarn, the crow’s nest, and a bottle of pilfered rum. Fjorm looks up at her, and Laegjarn realizes she has rocked up to her feet somehow, standing almost steadily. Everyone else cheers as if they’re not being cut off too. “We’re _all_ going to bed. We’re setting sail in the morning, so if you want to come along, you’ll be at the docks at dawn.” She gives them a considering look. “... Just after dawn.”

“Yes, Captain,” choruses the sea of drunk pirates. Laegjarn rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. When did she start laughing? She extricates Fjorm from the others with a hand on her sleeve, pulling her out of the curtained room. The bar is even more crowded now, and Laegjarn wants to grab Fjorm’s hand inside the long red cloak but she doesn’t want to scare her off.

They reach the room, and Fjorm manages to make it all the way to the bed before passing out. Laegjarn heads to the washrooms instead, desperately trying to splash some water onto her face to make this awful _blush_ go away. “If you throw up while sharing a bed with her, I will never forgive you,” she tells the mirror very seriously, pointing a finger at her reflection.

The mirror points right back. Laegjarn sighs and the room wavers around her. “Bedtime.”

It is, in fact, bedtime. Despite the party downstairs, their room is quiet enough for her to relax, and Laegjarn gets changed into her nightgown before slipping under the blanket. She doesn’t want to come anywhere near touching Fjorm, so she ends up tapping the pillow, a few inches from her head. “Fjorm,” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” whispers Fjorm, obviously _not_ awake. “Two more minutes.”

“No, it’s… you’re still dressed,” Laegjarn clucks. She’s too drunk to be doing this. She reaches over Fjorm to grab the end of the scarf, carefully untangling it and pulling it loose as best she can. The cloak is another problem, so Laegjarn just gives up and pulls the blankets over Fjorm’s shoulders. “Good night, Fjorm.”

“Night night,” Fjorm says into her pillow. Laegjarn stares at her for a long moment, overwhelmed by affection and alcohol. Then she rolls over to face the bedside table, blows the candle out, and falls asleep almost instantly.

  
  


Lantaine is an entirely different town in the morning, quiet and pale pink and cloudy. There is a fog in Laegjarn’s brain making it difficult to remember all the particulars of the night before, which might be a blessing. She knows she drank, and laughed, and spent too much money. She knows she slept next to Fjorm, only because she wakes up to the sound of someone in the bathroom— and who else could it be?

“Morning,” the princess says, upon opening the door and seeing Laegjarn sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her face. Fjorm looks better than someone who slept in their clothes has any right to look.

“Morning,” Laegjarn replies. She hides in the bathroom to get dressed, and when she’s ready, Fjorm stands by the door and waits patiently to leave.

The town is quiet too; it looks like it might rain, but the locals either don’t notice the oncoming storm or don’t care. Laegjarn sees one bookseller packing up his wares, and the thought dances across her mind again that it might be nice to retrieve a book on Niflese history. The problem is that there’s no way to follow through on that idea without Fjorm following and witnessing the purchase.

Laegjarn turns to give up but the distraction of the book still weighs on her mind. Her thoughts are clouded enough from Fjorm and the hangover that she crashes right into someone without seeing them first.

“My apologies,” Laegjarn offers quickly, and then when she identifies the stranger, “Motherfucker.”

“ _General_ ,” Helbindi growls. He’s wearing full Múspellian regalia; his horn could have impaled her if he’d been looking at the ground. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Laegjarn inhales deeply, rising to her full height. She dares not check if Fjorm is still standing behind her, or if she’s smart enough to have run. She finds herself praying to a god she hasn’t believed in for years that Fjorm has gone. “General,” she acknowledges. “What a surprise.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Helbindi snarls, stepping around her. Laegjarn closes her eyes so tightly they nearly hurt, hand twitching. She doesn’t want to fight her friend and comrade, but… well, she doesn’t want any of this. Panic lances through her heart as Helbindi addresses _both of them_. “Someone must’ve slipped me something last night, ’cause I swear I’m hallucinating. I mean, surely, that isn’t the missing ice princess?”

“Quiet,” Laegjarn begs. Now that the jig’s up, she chances a peek over her shoulder. Fjorm, still wearing the disguise, stares resolutely at Helbindi. The expression on her face is similar to how she looked when Laegjarn had first found her hiding in the ship.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Fjorm stays silent, and Helbindi laughs. “Is this your captive, Laegjarn? Your way to get back into the King’s good graces?”

“I don’t give a damn about the King’s good graces,” Laegjarn snaps, stepping back. Now her hand moves to grab Níu, but Helbindi doesn’t reach for his axe immediately. This doesn’t comfort Laegjarn much at all. She has seen Helbindi produce Býleistr in the blink of an eye and destroy anyone and everyone foolish enough to step into his path. Despite this, she doesn’t move out of his path.

The general looks puzzled for a moment, and then some grim realization sets in. He scoffs. “Yeah. Right. Now I know this must be a twisted joke. General Laegjarn, how many notches in your belt do you have from cutting down Niflese filth on the battlefield? Are you asking me to seriously believe that you… you’ve abandoned your father and home, and abandoned the war, only so that you could shack up with the _princess_ of Nifl?”

“It isn’t like that.” Laegjarn drops the hand on her sword, sighing. “You know why I left Múspell, Helbindi. I know you do. You understand.”

“Are you telling me that you think I’m capable of treason?” His forehead twitches. “Well… even if I was, I wouldn’t be spending my time with Hríd!”

Behind her, Fjorm stiffens. Laegjarn knows she does, because the hand on her arm tenses— then, she realizes, Fjorm has a hand on her arm. She shoots another glance over her shoulder, before turning back to Helbindi. “As I said, it isn’t… Look. There’s no political motivation behind it, as hard as that may be to believe. I found her and offered her a place on my ship, purely as a neutral party.”

“Your… ship.” Now that neither of them is in immediate danger of chopping any heads off (hopefully), she can observe Helbindi. His hair has grown more white and his wrinkles more pronounced. If they hadn’t once been so close, she might not have recognized him instantly. “You’re still on the Mímisbrunnr? Do you know that everyone thinks that you took that ship and grounded it on some forgotten island somewhere to escape your duty?”

“Rumours can be wrong.” Laegjarn narrows her eyes. “How’s Menja?”

“Real dick move, bringing up my sister,” Helbindi warns. There’s no fire behind it, and after a moment he relents. “She’s safe, as far as I know.”

“Good.”

“Laevatein is good too, not that you’d know.” He tilts his head to one side. “You remember your own family still, right?”

Now _that’s_ a real dick move. Fjorm drops her hand as Laegjarn sighs again. “Yes, Helbindi, I remember my own sister. Enough about me; it’s none of Surtr’s business. And come to think of it, it’s none of Múspell’s business either.”

“How easily you deride your own kingdom.”

“It is not a place that ever treated me well. Which I _know_ you understand.” Laegjarn pleads, “But Nifl is the same. They drive away their own leaders and their best fighters… I don’t want to get into politics with you, Helbindi. But I ask… please, I ask you not to tell Surtr about this.”

Helbindi stares at Laegjarn. Then at Fjorm. He folds his wide arms over his wider chest, but Laegjarn, optimistic for once, can see his resolve softening along with his frown. “I don’t owe you a thing.”

“Please,” Laegjarn says. “We… we were friends, weren’t we?”

“Hmph.” Then he looks at the ground. “... You owe me one. Many of them. A hundred. Promise me that.”

The thought that Helbindi still trusts her word, even after her departure from her family and her home, is too much to consider without feeling at least a little happy. Múspell might consider her a treasonous traitor, but at least one person from her homeland doesn’t hate her enough to skewer her on sight. Laegjarn’s relief shines through her smile. “Anything, of course.”

Helbindi meets her eyes. “You should contact King Surtr.”

Anything but that. Trying her best not to grimace, Laegjarn manages, “I will soon. … I promise you.”

The tall man moves his hands to his hips, and then very pointedly turns to stare at the bookseller, almost done securing the last of his wares. Laegjarn and Fjorm stand there to watch him stare as it starts to rain. A fat drop of rain lands on Helbindi’s nose, and he announces in the subtlest of shouts, “I’m looking away, so if any missing persons are nearby, I don’t see them!”

They do not need to be told twice. Laegjarn reaches for Fjorm’s hand to pull her away and Fjorm holds on tight enough to almost hurt. As the downpour starts, they run towards the docks. By the time they reach the Mímisbrunnr, Fjorm and Laegjarn and all their bags are soaked, but Laegjarn still finds it hard to banish the reassured smile from her face.

Onboard, the crew is waiting; Cynthia and Inigo have a (hopefully worthless) scroll over their heads as cover from the rain, and several of the other pirates have hoisted their jackets up over their heads as makeshift tarps. Sully and Dart pause their unloading to look over when Laegjarn arrives, and the chef yells over, “Hey, you’re alive!”

Fjorm mutters, “Barely.”

Laegjarn only grins wider, squeezing her hand. Then she remembers that they have an audience, and more importantly, that they’re at least half an hour late to meet that audience. “Morning, everyone,” she shouts so that the whole crew might hear her. “Sorry we’re late, Fjorm and I ran into some trouble.”

She expects them to call her out for being hungover, or for sleeping in. Instead, several of the crew’s eyes bug out of their head. Sothe drops the rope he’s holding, and Fjorm drops Laegjarn’s hand. Lewyn nearly slips on the wet deck as he dashes up to them. “Oh, so we’re done pretending, then?”

“Hm?” hums Laegjarn, and then she realizes her mistake very abruptly. There’s the end of Sylgr. “Oh. I…” She glances over at Fjorm, but the princess is just staring at her. Laegjarn takes a heavy breath in. “Yes. This is Fjorm, of Nifl.”

Not one person even has the decency to feign surprise. Valbar and his friends at least look confused.

“And her true identity changes nothing. Except…” Laegjarn’s hand moves to her sword. It seems like it might just be that kind of morning. “Anyone who goes behind my back to report this to my father Surtr— or report it to anyone at all— they will have betrayed my trust, and they will not be allowed to remain in the crew.” They’ll not be allowed to remain alive, actually, but Laegjarn would hope it didn’t get that far.

Inigo jokes, “Why would anyone want to talk to Surtr unless they had to?” 

It’s inappropriate; Brady groans immediately. But the silly joke deeply comforts Laegjarn, because it means that even though they are Heroes indebted by contract to Embla and Múspell, her crew has allegiance to _her_ and not to the King. “Thank you,” she tells Inigo, and everyone else. Fjorm breathes, for the first time since they saw Helbindi. “Now, back to work.”

If there really is a dragon crying blood somewhere up above them, it must be tireless. It rains for the rest of the day, and that night the deluge does not end. Fjorm’s bed is up against the window and Laegjarn wonders if she’s cold; the rain is loud enough that the wind outside must be awful, and the wall is not so thick.

She wants to offer for Fjorm to share her bed again. She closes her eyes, and twists her hands under the sheets— _in_ the sheets, of course. The other woman is barely ten feet away, and to take advantage of her presence to fulfil a fantasy like that would be dishonourable. Besides, there’s no way to tell if Fjorm is really sleeping when she’s this distant. She isn’t muttering about any nightmares, but she breathes evenly enough that Laegjarn is uncertain.

She wonders when ten feet started to feel distant. Laegjarn folds her hands together, clasping her fingers as if she is praying under the sheets. She thinks about Fjorm holding her hands again, and she thinks about Fjorm sharing her bed.

This is all too much. Laegjarn lies in bed for only ten seconds more before groaning and sitting up. She pulls on pants underneath her nightgown and as she fumbles for the button in the darkness, Fjorm speaks quietly, “Where are you going?”

Even in the darkness that golden and blue hair still shines. Laegjarn tries to make out the woman’s individual features, but it is impossible. She says without thinking, “Come see for yourself.”

They bring a candle with them and open the door to the cabin, only to walk two steps before sitting. The stairs down to the main deck are wet, except for at the very top. If they squeeze close to the entrance then the overhang above them prevents rain from falling right on their head. Laegjarn figured this out her very first night on the Mímisbrunnr when the weather had been exactly like this.

Laegjarn leans back against the door and Fjorm mimics her; she sticks her bare feet out into the rain and Fjorm laughs at her gently. Aside from the rain, the ship is quiet; whoever their driver is, they have elected to man the wheel in silence. Laegjarn doesn’t mind sea shanties but right now she’s glad for the peace.

Despite the full moon, the deck of the ship is dark. The moon above them is usually so bright that Laegjarn can make out every individual knot in the ropes hanging from the mast, but right now the storm clouds are hiding it from view. It’s cold too, and Laegjarn settles her feet back down on the stairs soon enough. The last thing she needs is to catch a cold; if she starts coughing like Fjorm, she’ll never hear the end of it.

Maybe Fjorm senses when she crosses Laegjarn’s mind— hopefully not, as the number of thoughts would embarrass them both. She says softly, “May I ask you something about what Helbindi said?”

Here it comes. _You didn’t have to say that, you could have handed me over, you’re endangering yourself tenfold by keeping me around._ Laegjarn braces herself. “Yes?”

“If the rumours about your departure from Múspell ever reached Nifl, then they didn’t reach me.” Fjorm frowns. “Is that truly why you left? I mean, was that your dream, to— to ground this ship on a forgotten island and get lost there?”

Oh. “That isn’t too far off,” she confesses. “My dream was to find uncharted land, which is why I took control of this ship instead of escaping the war another way.” Like dying on the battlefield, or stowing herself away somewhere and waiting for the mercy of her enemies. “It still… I do hope… If I find uncharted land, then I would be able to escape the war altogether forever. And then Laevatein and I could live in peace.”

When she says it aloud, it sounds even less likely. Even if there was some hidden island uninhabited and undiscovered for centuries, waiting out there for their warship, the idea of Laevatein abandoning the war and their home is unbelievable. Laevatein does not love Surtr, but she believes her dedication to him is love. The thought turns Laegjarn’s stomach.

“My dream is impossible,” Fjorm says finally, quietly. Laegjarn glances over to see her looking up at the clouds, perhaps searching for obscured stars. “But I think that your dream sounds wonderful.”

Laegjarn watches Fjorm as Fjorm watches the sky, and they sit together until the rain stops and the sky starts to brighten.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed! Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and the general feedback on this fic have been motivating me to continue writing. I'd love to hear all your thoughts!


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